


The End and the Beginning

by reve_silencieux



Series: The Last Con [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, Gen, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2663045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reve_silencieux/pseuds/reve_silencieux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years after the events of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2179899">The Last Con</a>, Peter and Jones stumble across a case that opens up old wounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Five Years Later_

Clinton Jones smiled as he watched a harried teacher herd a large group of students into the museum. He remembered being that age and dragging his feet when they took them on field trips. He liked getting out of school for the day, but he’d never been one for art. The science museum had been more up his alley.

He couldn’t blame the kids for their grumbling, especially seeing them all bundled up because of the cold. It had snowed the day before, and it was a mess outside. He’d been lucky that his flight had made it in, despite several delays, and that he and Agent Thompson had made it to the hotel in one piece, even though the roads had been bad. The plows had done their job overnight though, so their drive to the Denver Art Museum that morning had been easier.

Clinton caught the eye of the teacher as she passed by him, the kids trailing behind her listlessly and gave her a smile as he waited to speak with the curator.

They could have let the Denver Field Office handle the case, but seeing as the suspected forgery had just arrived from New York City’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, the White Collar unit had taken point. This was the fourth forgery discovered of late in New York and the surrounding areas.

“Agent Jones?”

He turned around and spotted two women walking towards him, one in her late thirties and the other in her fifties, her hair already silver and pulled back in an elegant twist. They stopped in front of him and gave him warm, if hesitant, smiles.

“Special Agent Clinton Jones,” he said, and showed them his badge.

“I’m Julia Collins, Chief Curator here at the museum, and this is Amanda Nichols, curator for the Painting and Sculpture department.”

He nodded and shook their hands. “Thank you for meeting me.”

“Oh, we’re happy to help. I’m still in shock, though,” Julia replied. “We’ve never had something like this happen before.”

“I’ve spoken briefly with your head of security, but I was hoping you could walk me through the movement of the art once it arrived,” he said, pulling out his notepad from his coat pocket.

“Of course, but even though I have no idea how this could have happened, I’m almost positive we must have received the forgery. I doubt it could have been stolen in such a short time frame.”

Jones smiled. He’d already come to the same conclusion, given the number of forgeries that had popped up lately. “It’s likely, but we have to entertain all possibilities. Now, who was aware of the painting’s loan and shipment?”

Amanda spoke up. “Aside from Julia, the entire staff of the European Art department knew about it. The Met sent us several paintings for an Impressionist exhibition that opens next month. We’ve been preparing for their arrival for months. The exhibition’s been advertised for almost two months now.”

Jotting down in his notepad, Jones nodded. “Who handled the actual shipment?”

“Our security department is always present when we receive a shipment. The shipment is carefully inventoried against the shipping manifest. No more than a few people handle the art itself,” Julia explained.

“I oversaw the delivery, and I noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Everything was packaged securely and I wouldn’t even have suspected anything was wrong,” Amanda continued.

He raised an eyebrow at this. “But you looked at the paintings, correct?”

“Yes, of course, but only for the sake of visual confirmation. They were stored away, and I didn’t start working with them until the next day.”

“And then an intern discovered the forgery, correct? A John Cameron,” he read from the notes that he had taken earlier while speaking to the Head of Security. “Did you find that unusual? I mean, he’s a college student.”

“Yes, and normally I would be surprised, but he’s probably one of our best interns. In fact, we extended his internship from one semester to two. Everybody loves him—he’s worked with several departments. Quite frankly, of all the people here, he’s probably the only one who could spot a forgery.”

Jones looked up from his notes surprised. “Really? Why is that?”

“Because he’s worked a lot with Impressionism and we have a very small collection of Impressionist art. Most of us have studied and worked all over the country, but not many can top his background and experience,” Amanda explained.

“But he's a college student,” Jones repeated, feeling confused.

Julia sighed. “Agent Jones, you have to understand, our interns comes from varied backgrounds. Yes, most of them are young college students, but many are artists themselves, and have studied abroad. Mr. Cameron used to live and work in France. He’s worked with several museums there for over a decade.”

“He's very good. We actually offered him a job, but he’s hoping to teach once he graduates this spring,” Amanda added.

Jones rested a hand on his hip, glancing between the two women. “So you're telling me that a guy who used to work in France, possibly one of the best places to work in the field of art, decided to come back to the States and go to college?” That sounded fishy to him.

Julia and Amanda shared a look. Clearing her throat, Julia gave him a tight smile. “Agent Jones, did you always want to be an FBI agent?”

Jones shifted and crossed his arms. “I was in the Navy first.”

She nodded. “Exactly. Many people change careers. It’s not easy to find work as an artist. More often than not, they turn to teaching for stability.”

“So he needed money?” That didn't make him any less suspicious.

Amanda shrugged. “They're called starving artists for a reason, Agent.”

“Right.” Jones made a note to check out his financials. “Do you think he or anyone else here would have a reason to steal the painting? Any financial problems?”

Amanda shook her head. “Not that I can think of, but why do I feel like you suspect him? He _is_ the one who pointed out that it was a forgery.”

“News of a theft increases the value. It also allows a thief to prove to a buyer that it’s real,” Jones explained.

“I just don't see him doing it, Agent Jones. And I don't think he had the opportunity, did he?” Julia glanced at Amanda, who shook her head.

“No, the painting arrived on a Monday, and he only works Tuesdays and Thursdays. He only came by to see it while I had it out for inventory. Aside from two other people working on the exhibition, no one else has access, either.”

That made his job easier, even though he still suspected it had been stolen in New York. He smiled and nodded at the women. “Thank you for your help. I'll need to talk to everyone who did have access, though.”

“Of course, but like I said, Neal only works Tuesdays and Thursdays. You'll have to wait until tomorrow to talk with him,” Amanda replied.

Jones froze. He hadn't heard that name in years. The coincidence was too startling to ignore. “Neal?”

Amanda blinked. It took her a second to understand his confusion. “Oh, sorry. John. He goes by his middle name, Neal.”

A chill ran down his back. Jones didn't know whether to hope it was just a coincidence or not. Neal was dead, had been for over five years now. He couldn’t be the only ‘Neal’ in the art world.

“I'd like to see his employee records, and for everyone else too,” he managed to get out, his heart beating fast.

Julia nodded, unaware of the tension they had unknowingly created. “I can get those for you. In the meantime, Amanda can introduce you to the rest of the staff.”

Jones smiled, feeling a little numb, and tried to shake himself out of it. This was just another case, another witness to interview.

An hour later, after speaking to the other employees, he met Julia and picked up the files. Thanking her and taking them back to the small conference room he'd been set up with, he finally opened the file on John Cameron. The other employees had talked highly of him, and agreed with Julia and Amanda's assessment that he had no reason to steal it.

Unfortunately, as the smiling face of Neal Caffrey stared back at him, he had to wonder who was fooling whom.

Jones pulled out his cell phone. His thumb hovered over the button to call Peter. This would wreck his boss. But he had to tell him.

Tapping the screen, he waited as the call went through.

“Peter? It's Jones. I need you to fly out tonight. There's been a development. I'll explain when you get here.”

Hanging up, he stared at Neal's photo. He didn't look any different, maybe just a little older. He still had the charming smile and bright blue eyes that could make any woman fall at his feet. It was just hard to believe the man had faked his own death, had allowed Peter and everyone else to mourn him. There had been no reason to doubt it, his body had been identified, police reports filed on the car accident.

And what about Sara? Had she really died? Was Neal so broken that he had to start over?

He skimmed the file on Neal, but found nothing to answer any of his questions. On paper, he was a regular college intern. 3.9 GPA. Glowing recommendations. Jones knew he had to dig deeper, but he was afraid to raise any flags. Part of him felt he owed that to Neal. He had to have a reason for hiding, and this time, he knew he should follow his wishes.

But that didn't mean Jones wasn't going to track him down. No, he had questions, and Peter would want to see him. He would just have to be careful.

*~*~*~*

  
Peter got off the tram at Denver International Airport carrying his laptop bag and pulling his carry-on behind him. He walked towards the baggage claim, where Jones would be waiting for him. His curiosity was piqued because of Jones' vague phone call, but he didn't doubt the agent, and had booked a flight out that evening. As ASAC, he had the purview to work on any case. All he had to do was get his assistant to reschedule a few meetings. It had to be something big for Jones to call him out.

Scanning the crowd of people, he spotted Jones by the windows and walked over to him.

“Hey Jones, I hope you're not trying to get a vacation out of this trip.”

The younger agent shook his head and smiled grimly. “I wish that were the case. We've had an unexpected development that I know you'll want to see.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “This must be pretty important. What happened?”

Jones hesitated, then nodded towards the parking garage. “I'll explain in the car.”

Nodding, Peter followed him out and they walked to Jones' rental in silence. Once he'd thrown his stuff into the backseat, he looked over at Jones expectantly. “What's up?”

Turning in his seat, Jones pulled out the case folder from his briefcase in the backseat. Handing it over, he took a deep breath. “The forgery was discovered by an intern.”

Peter opened the folder, pausing to look up at the other agent. “An intern? Guess he's going to get an A.” He skimmed the first couple of pages with the regular case notes then flipped until he saw the employee files.

His heart plummeted and he blinked, trying to clear his eyes as he stared at the face smiling back at him.

_“Neal?”_

Jones nodded.

“I...I don't get it. How can this be?” Peter's stomach clenched, and expected to feel the familiar heartbreak that overcame him whenever he thought about his friend. But now he was just confused. A long time ago it wouldn't have surprised him that Neal had faked his death—he'd done it before. Peter had no reason to even _think_ that he would do it again. Not after his anklet was off.

“I can't answer that, Peter. But he's here, and has been for the past five years. I don't think he's the one that stole the painting, but I figured you'd want to talk to him.”

Peter nearly growled as the anger started to set in. “You bet your ass I want to talk to him. Where is he?”

Jones held up a hand. “Whoa, come on Peter, I know you're upset, but don't you think it's a little late? It's eleven. We can talk to him tomorrow at the museum.”

“My best friend faked his death and made me grieve for him, so no, I won't wait until morning. He can lose a little of his beauty sleep.”

Jones' eyes widened and settled back in his seat, pulling his seat belt across. “Okay, then.” Starting the car, he entered Neal's address in the GPS unit then backed out.

As they drove out of the airport, Peter started skimming Neal's file. “What did you find on him?”

Glancing over, Jones frowned. “I didn't want to dig too deep, just in case there’s a good reason for everything, but I ran his name like I did everyone else’s, and he's clean. He's going by the name John Neal Cameron.”

Peter stared at the photo of his friend, feeling unsettled. “He's still using Neal. That's a first.”

“I know. And Boulder, Colorado isn’t exactly a tropical island. A lot of it is surprising,” he replied and slowed down at the toll booth. Once they passed, he continued. “A Colorado driver’s license was issued to him in May, almost five years ago. His last known address is listed in Paris. According to the curator, he worked there for several years. At least, that's the story he gave them.”

Peter closed the file and looked out into the night. None of it made sense. Why did Neal run here? To go to college? “And he's just been here, going to school?” he asked.

Jones nodded. “Yep. He enrolled at the University of Colorado Boulder that fall in an accelerated Bachelors and Master’s program in Art History. He's set to graduate this spring. The curator said he wants to teach.”

“Well, he does like to show off his knowledge,” Peter conceded, rolling his eyes. He'd had the entire class eating out of his hand that one time. He could only imagine what he'd be like teaching art history to a lecture hall full of young college kids. The girls would be falling all over him. Neal would be the most popular professor on campus, if Peter had to guess.

“That's definitely true,” Jones agreed, chuckling. “What I don't get is why he had to run away to do it.”

It was the million dollar question. Neal finally had a good life, had settled down with Sara... Peter's eyes widened in alarm and he sat up straight, looking over at Jones.

“What about Sara?”

Jones nodded towards the file. “I found her listed as his emergency contact. They're married.”

Peter let out a breath. She was alive too. He was happy to hear that. If Neal had lost Sara too...

He wouldn't have been surprised at the fact that Neal had run if Sara had died. Neal had lost way too many people those last few years. Starting over fresh, where his past couldn't haunt him, would have been very tempting to him.

“They got married a year after moving to Colorado. She's a lawyer at a firm in Denver. I looked at their website and she's listed as working in Art & Culture and Intellectual Property law.”

Tapping his fingers on the middle console, Peter nodded absently. Even Sara had started over. He vaguely remembered that she had a law degree, but had never given it a second thought. Apparently she had found a new avenue to work art crimes. “Did you check their financials?”

“I did, and nothing stood out. They have credit card bills, car payments, even a mortgage. I don’t think he ran away to start his criminal career again, not while going to school,” Jones pointed out.

Peter sighed and shook his head. “No, you’re right. I don’t think he did.” He paused then glanced at Jones. “How are they paying for his tuition?”

“Well, that’s the only weird thing I could find. The only record I see of them paying the school is the current year. So I called the school, but without a warrant they couldn’t give me his records. All the lady could tell me is that he had no outstanding payments.”

“So someone else paid for it,” Peter thought out loud.

Jones shrugged. “Maybe. I figured it was a loan or something.”

“Or a fake scholarship,” he muttered and slapped the console. Neal just couldn’t get away from it, could he? He wanted to start over, but he’d either had to use his old resources to pay for it or else he’d rigged the scholarship somehow.

“Hey, Peter, we don’t know that,” Jones said, glancing over and looking worried. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

Peter laughed bitterly. “It’s Neal. I can’t help it.” He sighed. “I just can’t help it,” he repeated softly, looking out the window at the passing landscape. It was dark, darker than he’d seen in a long time, not since he’d been home to upstate New York, away from all the city lights.

He turned back. “Why would they only pay this year though?”

“Well, if it is a scholarship or a loan, they’re usually only for four years.”

Nodding, Peter understood. “But he’s in a five year program.”

And he had to give Neal credit for that. He was getting a degree, going straight. He had a wife, a house, was going after a good job… everything he’d always wanted. Everything he saw in Peter’s relationship with Elizabeth.

The rest of their drive was spent in silence, with only more questions circling through Peter’s head. Jones pulled off the highway forty minutes later and followed the GPS to a quiet neighborhood. It was a world of difference from the townhomes in Brooklyn. It had homes separated by several feet, well-manicured lawns and driveways. Greenbelts with walking trails and low wooden fences sprawled through the subdivision.

Jones whistled as he caught sight of the homes. They weren’t mansions, but they weren’t the small track homes that dotted most of America’s suburbs. “Wow, these are pretty nice. I guess that’s what you get when you leave the city.”

When they slowed down near Neal’s house, Peter couldn’t help but shake his head. “Three car garage? I don’t even have one. Are we sure he didn’t steal the painting?”

Jones chuckled. “Peter, you live in New York. No one has a garage. That’s the price you have to pay to live in commuting distance.” He pulled into the driveway and cut off the headlights quickly. “It is hard though, to picture Neal here—living in the suburbs, going to school, having a mortgage. He was always so slick, so metropolitan. I never imagined him settling down, not really.”

“I did,” Peter murmured as he looked at the house where Neal’s dreams had come true. He’d always wanted this for Neal. Knew he could have it if he just worked for it, if he set his mind to it, and ignored temptation (and Mozzie).

“Well, I guess it’s time to get some answers.” Jones opened his door. “This is going to be interesting.”

“No kidding,” Peter muttered under his breath. As much as he wanted to hug his friend, he knew the questions would come spilling out, along with the anger and resentment that had been building for the past hour. It had taken him months to move on from Neal’s death. Every Christmas was a reminder that he was gone, and just two months ago Peter had visited his grave, amazed that five years had already passed.

Five years that Neal had been living a quiet life in Colorado. He couldn’t deny that Neal deserved it, but it wasn’t fair that he’d had to lie and they’d had to mourn his death in order for him to get it.

He got out and followed Jones up the sidewalk to the front door. There was a light on high up in the porch, but the house was dark. His hand froze over the doorbell, and for a second he felt bad about waking them up, but then remembered how many times Neal had come over unannounced at all times of day and night. No, he felt no remorse for this. He wanted answers.

Quickly he pressed the button.

It took a couple minutes before a light came on in the entryway. Peter shared a look with Jones and took a deep breath. This was it.

They heard the deadbolt flip, then the door opened slowly before it was pushed wide open. Peter’s eyes dropped from the empty doorway down until he caught sight of Neal’s tousled head. His jaw went slack as he took in the ex-con, clad in a t-shirt and sweats, and sitting in a sleek black wheelchair, his feet haphazardly situated on the footrest.

Neal didn’t seem as surprised to see him. He seemed resigned to the fact that Peter and Jones were on his doorstep at midnight. He sighed. “Peter.” With one quick move, he backed away and spun around, leaving the door to swing shut behind him.

Peter’s arm shot out quickly to keep it from closing and glanced back at Jones. The younger agent appeared as stunned as Peter felt. They said nothing and followed Neal inside.

*~*~*~*

  
_Five years earlier_

_Sara woke up to a dull throbbing throughout her body. It took several moments for her to realize that she was not in her own bed. The sounds of a hospital filled the air and the pain amplified as she slowly came to her senses. Wearily, she opened her eyes, and nearly closed them a second later, wanting to curl into a ball and fall back unconscious as everything screamed in pain. The bright lights made her head pound, and the smallest movement sent a sharp pain through her abdomen and up her left arm._

_She shifted slightly and felt something holding her shoulders back, which only sent a new wave of pain through her chest._

_“Hey there, don't move, Sara,” a soft voice commanded her._

_She blinked and turned her head slightly. Reena stood up from a chair at her bedside and walked over._

_“What...” she croaked and stopped, swallowing and wincing at the feel of her dry throat. “What happened?”_

_Reena picked up a water glass from her bedside table and held it out for her to sip from. The angle was awkward, but Sara greedily drank._

_“You were in a car accident. Do you remember?”_

_Sara paused and tried to ignore the pounding in her head as she thought back._

_They had gone to the market. A man was following them. The taxi._

_Her eyes widened. “Neal!”_

_Reena softly touched her hand. “Shhh... he's here. Don't worry.” She pulled the chair up to the bed and sat down._

_She shook her head then cried out as the pain shot through her shoulder. Clenching her jaw, she closed her eyes and breathed in and out for a few seconds. “How is he?”_

_“He's pretty banged up. You both were,” she replied, then asked again, “Do you remember anything?”_

_“We were being followed. Neal tried to lose them. We finally caught a cab and were headed to Scotland Yard,” Sara recounted, and Reena nodded._

_“I figured as much. The driver had jotted that down in his book.” She paused. “He died on the scene.”_

_Sara closed her eyes. The man lost his life because of them._

_“The car that hit you was stolen and dumped later, wiped down. We don't have any clear video of the driver, but we suspect one of Gregory's men.”_

_Neal had been right, all along. Gregory was not to be messed with. Most days it was hard to think of Neal as a criminal when there were men like Keller and Gregory out there. He never hurt anyone, but guys like them had no compunctions about killing someone if they got in their way._

_“Sara, I need you to listen carefully.”_

_Opening her eyes, she looked at Reena worried._

_Her friend's face was drawn tight, and there were heavy bags under her eyes. “I've done my best to protect you two. You're here under the names of Alec and Jessica Miller, and there are plainclothes officers on the floor. But we have to talk about what comes next.”_

_She gave her a slight nod, and Reena squeezed her hand softly. “First, I should let you know that you'll be out of here in a couple of days. You broke your collarbone and your arm in two places. They’ve scheduled surgery tomorrow to align the bones after the swelling has gone down.”_

_That explained the sling holding her shoulders back and the splint on her left arm, Sara realized somewhat belatedly. It was obvious she wasn’t thinking clearly, still disoriented and a little fuzzy._

_“You also hit your head pretty hard. The doctors are pretty sure you have a concussion. They'll want to observe you for a while to make sure there aren't any complications from that. Your spleen ruptured and they had to repair that, but they were able to save most of it, so again, they're just going to monitor you to make sure there's no further bleeding or infection. Other than that, your whole left side is just one big bruise, I suspect, so you're probably going to be miserable for a few days.”_

_Sara was already feeling pretty miserable, but knew she had to be on some good drugs. She wasn't looking forward to when they wore off._

_“You'll be put into protective custody when you leave, but Neal's going to be here for a while longer.”_

_Her head jerked, and she didn't care about the resulting pain. “What happened?” Sara exclaimed, and her heart hammered in her chest. She couldn't lose him now._

_Reena took a deep breath and squeezed her hand again. “He's going to be fine, Sara, but the car hit his side of the taxi. His spinal cord was severed.”_

_“No...” she whispered in horror, tears spilling from her eyes. Not Neal, no, this couldn't be right._

_“He was pretty lucky though, it's a low break. He'll have full use of his arms and upper body. They have him sedated right now as they wait for the swelling to go down. He'll have surgery later to stabilize the spinal cord,” Reena carefully explained, her eyes suspiciously wet as well._

_Sara nodded numbly, the news still sinking in. She couldn't imagine Neal not dancing around, laughing, so carefree and happy. The memory of the two of them climbing the steps up the Arc de Triomphe, holding onto each other, gasping for breath when they reached the top, just weeks ago._

_But at least he still had his hands. If he couldn't paint... couldn't touch her..._

_She closed her eyes and pushed that thought away. That didn't happen._

_“I'm sorry, Sara.”_

_Taking a shuddering breath, Sara tried not to cry, but the tears kept coming. All because of a painting. A stupid painting._

_“Sara, I know this is hard, but we have to discuss what happens now. You two aren't safe. At present, Gregory doesn't know you survived, but if he finds out...” she trailed off and looked at Sara apologetically._

_“He'll come after us again,” Sara filled in, wiping tears from her eyes._

_Reena nodded. “We can keep you in protective custody until the trial, but I'm not sure that will stop him. He has connections everywhere. Not only does he have his own people in Europe, and contacts around the world, but the criminal world knows Neal.”_

_“And they know he worked for the FBI, so they won't mind giving him up,” Sara said, the realization hitting her hard._

_“Exactly. And Neal's not in a position to go anywhere. The doctors say he could be here for a few weeks, and then he'll have to go to rehab. After that, well… ” She paused, hesitating slightly. “He won't be able to slip into the crowds anymore.”_

_There was no winning, Sara thought. He couldn't run from his past even if he wanted to. For all the good he'd done, he'd never be able to move on, not without a target on his back. It wasn’t fair._

_“So what are you thinking?” she asked, her voice shaking, looking to her friend for answers—for what amounted to a miracle._

_“I think,” Reena replied slowly, “the only way for you to be safe is to for Gregory to believe you two died today.”_

_Understanding dawned in Sara’s eyes and she frowned. “You mean, go into hiding.”_

_“Witness Protection.” Reena smiled sadly and leaned back in her chair. “You can start new lives. No one will be looking for Neal.”_

_“But we’ll have to give everything up, everyone we know.”_

_She nodded. “I know it’s a lot to ask of you, Sara, and normally faking you death isn’t required, but-”_

_“…it’s the only way,” Sara interrupted her._

_“Yes.”_

_Sara grabbed a fistful of the blanket with her good arm, clenching it tight, and looked out the window. She couldn’t believe that just this morning they had set out to go to the market like any other weekend. Their whole lives had changed in an instant. Neal would never walk again. They would never see Peter or Elizabeth, or even Mozzie ever again. Their friends would think them dead._

_“Sara,” Reena called out softly. “I can’t force you. It’s Neal that’s at risk. If you don’t want to do it, just say the word. But we can’t guarantee your safety.”_

_“Because he might come after me, use me as bait if he suspects that Neal’s still alive.” Sara closed her eyes. It wasn’t a question of whether she’d go with Neal. She loved him, and she wasn’t leaving him to do this alone. He had more to lose than she did. She had no family and only a few friends. For so long, her job had been her life. Then she’d learned that she needed to find a life outside of it, and had found it in Neal._

_She’d find a new job, but she couldn’t replace Neal._

_Her life had just shattered into a million pieces, but she felt a fire light up inside her, determined to not let this get the better of her. Sara knew they would come out of this stronger than before. She wouldn't let Gregory win._

_“I’ll do it,” she said quietly, opening her eyes to look up at Reena._

_Sara would lose her too. She’d have to make new friends, and then lie to their faces. Her whole life would become one big lie. Would it get easier as time passed?_

_Her friend smiled knowingly. “I’m sorry I’m putting this on you. We’ll still ask Neal, of course, but I think it’ll be easier for him if he knows you’re okay with it.”_

_She was making the decision for him, wasn’t she? He’d let her go to London so she’d be happy, but this time, she had to think about him, and what he needed. He had a long road to recovery, and maybe this was a chance for him to have that life he’d always wanted. It wasn’t what they had planned, but life was always full of surprises._

_She certainly had never planned on falling in love with Neal Caffrey._


	2. Chapter 2

Neal didn’t bother to check whether they followed him inside. Peter was like a dog with a bone when it came to anything involving him. He stopped just inside the living room and turned around. He watched as Peter took in the room with quick, furtive glances before his eyes came to rest on Neal.

People always stared at him—before averting their eyes. Neal was used to it. Peter, though, his eyes drifted over him, from the chair upwards, and he wasn’t surprised to see that the shock had turned to sadness. Often he wondered what would happen if he ever saw Peter again. But Peter had no reason to ever cross paths with Neal, not anymore.

Until now.

It had been a risk, alerting the museum of the forgery, but he had felt compelled to. He knew the FBI would get involved, and there was a chance that someone might recognize him. But he’d hoped his face had been forgotten in the years since his death. Obviously someone had remembered though. Someone had made the connection and called Peter.

Seeing Peter and Jones on his doorstep had stirred up old feelings, long since buried. Given the situation he wasn’t totally surprised, but at the same time it made his heart race and ache at the sight of his old friends.

Peter’s gaze cut back up to Neal’s face and he saw the shift from sadness to anger. It was inevitable. Neal acknowledged that he had every right to be mad at him. If their positions had been reversed, he would have been upset too.

“What the hell happened, Neal?” Peter threw out angrily.

Even though he’d been expecting it, Neal rolled back, feeling like he'd been punched. “What does it look like, Peter? I’d think it was rather obvious,” he replied, unable to help the sarcasm coloring his voice.

“How would I know?” Peter waved a hand in the air. “I got a phone call that you and Sara died in a car accident, and I believed it. I was shocked, but I had no reason to doubt it. Why, Neal? Why would you put us through that?” His shoulders slumped, and the air seemed to deflate out of him.

“I’m sorry, Peter. I had no other choice,” Neal said quietly.

“Because of what? This?” Peter’s eyes darted down to his still legs.

Neal's hands gripped his wheels tightly. He felt a slow tendril of anger burn through him. He knew he no longer looked like the old, charming Neal Caffrey. He had accepted that a long time ago. But now, he was faced with those who knew him from before. He felt exposed—like their expectations of him had fallen. It had helped that those who knew him now had never met that man, and had no problems trusting or accepting him.

But it still hurt a lot—especially coming from Peter.

“Because of _what?_ ” he repeated, incredulous. “You want to know why?” He leaned forward. “Did you ever wonder about all those people you put away?” he asked, a hard edge to his voice. “Did you ever think about them afterwards? Or did you just go on blissfully with your life?”

Peter's eyes widened. “Are you saying-”

“What do you think they thought of me, huh?” Neal cut him off. “I was a traitor, an ex-con helping the feds. You got to hide behind the badge, you got the protection that it afforded, but I didn't.”

“It wasn't an accident, was it?” Jones asked softly, looking down at Neal, his face a mix of sympathy and horror.

He didn't want their pity. Shaking his head sharply, he replied bitterly, “No, it was a hit.”

The room stilled and the air felt as though the temperature had dropped ten degrees. He glared at them, daring them to say something. To realize they lived an easy life, despite the danger they faced every day.

“Neal?” Sara’s voice called out quietly.

Neal glanced over, grateful for the interruption. He'd expected Peter's anger, but not his own. At the hospital he'd been too worried about Sara to really be angry. There had been regret, frustration and sadness afterwards, but he'd known he couldn't change anything so he had just moved on.

Apparently he'd just buried it instead. His eyes connected with Sara and she looked at him worried. She'd heard him he knew, and with a pang he wished he'd never spotted the forgery. Sara didn’t need any of this now, neither Peter nor the memories he awakened. It would only hurt her more. 

While he hadn’t been truly surprised by the late night awakening, he knew she was on edge. Five years of staying under the radar and he'd made this decision without her, and possibly at the worst time. She stood in the doorway, halfway in the shadows and holding a baseball bat like a pro. It should have been comical, considering she looked like she might topple over any second—nine months pregnant and half-asleep—except for the fact that he knew she was scared, her grip on the bat was white-knuckled.

There were no guns in their house, and Sara no longer had her baton, but that didn’t stop her. Sara didn’t cower to anyone, and Neal loved that about her. The essence of Sara Ellis had not changed with Witness Protection or the intervening years. 

“It’s okay, Sara,” he reassured her and she lowered the bat, stepping out of the dark hallway.

Her eyes flickered with thinly veiled distrust as she took in Peter and Jones’ presence. “Peter,” she said coolly, a slight quiver in her voice giving away the tension and fear that he knew was flowing through her. She moved to his side and he reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Sara.” Peter’s jaw dropped. “You’re pregnant!”

Sara raised an eyebrow. “Great powers of observation there, Peter. I can tell you haven’t lost your touch.” Peter looked annoyed and seemed about to bite off something when Neal shook his head and glanced back at Sara.

“How’s Madeline?”

Sara tore her eyes away from their midnight visitors, and back down at him. “She’s still asleep.”

He nodded, feeling relieved. One less thing to worry about. “Good. Why don't you go back to bed too? This will probably take a while.”

“Are you sure?” She looked at him, concerned, glancing briefly at Peter and worrying her lip between her teeth.

He knew she wanted to stay, felt that she should be a part of this conversation, but she needed her sleep. It was a constant battle between them, each feeling the need to take care of the other. Right now, she took precedence, no matter what happened tonight.

“It’ll be okay, I promise,” he repeated softly, even though he knew it would do little to calm her. She didn't seem convinced but she nodded. Bending down, she kissed him lightly, and he touched her cheek, giving her a small smile. She left without another word, a clear sign that she was too tired to argue.

Neal turned his attention back to Peter, who stood there looking stunned. 

“You have a daughter?”

“Yes, so please keep your voice down.” He moved further into the living room, situating himself across from the couch. Peter and Jones followed. 

Peter looked back towards where Sara had disappeared. “Sara didn’t seem too happy to see us.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “Why would she? She’s nine months pregnant, woken up in the middle of the night, afraid that she’s going to lose everything we’ve built here.”

“What?” Peter looked at him startled and confused.

Neal crossed his arms, frustration building in him again, despite knowing better. He attributed it to the late hour, but fear was a more likely cause. “You don't get it. We didn't fake our deaths for the fun of it, Peter. We're in Witness Protection. Once the Marshals find out that you're here, they'll whisk us away and we'll have to start all over again.”

The light dawned on Jones' face and Peter just looked like he'd been run over by a tractor trailer. The hits just kept coming.

“We're FBI, though,” Jones was the first one to speak.

He shook his head. “It doesn't matter. You're from our old lives.” He rolled forward, his eyes searching. “You think that I didn’t want to tell you? This is the one time I followed all the rules. It’s not just my life—it’s Sara’s too. And I have a family to think of now.”

“We won’t tell anyone,” Peter insisted.

Neal just shook his head again. He wished it could be as easy as a promise. “It’s not that simple. The local office contacted you. They made the connection. You keeping quiet doesn’t mean it all goes away. The Marshals won’t accept that.”

Jones straightened and shared a look with Peter. “Neal, they didn’t contact us. We’re the only ones that know you’re here.”

For a moment, Neal stilled at the realization that he could keep this life that he’d worked so hard for. “You mean…” he trailed off as his mind quickly put it all together. “The painting came from the Met,” he breathed.

“Exactly.” Jones nodded. “A few forgeries have popped up in the area in the past year. So when we got the call about this one, we knew it could be connected. I only realized you were here when I saw your employee file. Called Peter right away, but told no one else.”

Neal glanced at Peter who held a placating hand in the air. “I only found out an hour ago.” Neal nodded numbly, knowing that it explained the shock and anger on Peter’s part, although he didn’t think that Peter would have reacted any differently, even with time. 

Jones hesitated a moment and shrugged his shoulders. “I knew it was probably better to keep things quiet for now. I had Thompson run background checks on everyone. That’s as far as I went.”

“Thompson?”

“Ryan Thompson. New probie at the office. He’s been with us, maybe a year?” Jones looked at Peter to confirm and got a nod in return.

Neal raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure he didn’t do his thesis on me at Quantico? I was a popular choice, I recall.”

Peter rolled his eyes and let a short huff. “No, he did not. I’m sorry to inform you that your… legacy has dimmed somewhat since your death. And while there’s a chance that he’s heard your name at the office, I doubt he’d recognize you.”

It hurt to hear, but logically, Neal knew that everyone had moved on. Aside from his closest friends, the FBI wouldn’t care about or remember a con man that they didn’t have to worry about anymore. There was always someone new on the scene, another case on the desk.

“I can have him interview you tomorrow too, so that my name’s not on the report, just in case the Marshals check,” Jones added.

Neal gave him a small smile and nodded in appreciation. Jones understood. It was going to take a lot more than a promise to keep this secret from the Marshals. But as scared as he was about the prospect of losing everything again, it was a weight off his shoulders, having his friends know the truth, not lying (even in absentia) to Peter. 

Peter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He swiped a hand over his face and took a deep breath. Neal knew exactly what was coming.

“Who was it, Neal? Why go to such lengths?”

He closed his eyes as he remembered the face of the man who had nearly ruined his life. A man who had little regard for anyone that got in his way. If he’d known… Neal shook his head and opened his eyes.

“Isaac Gregory. He wasn’t particularly happy that I helped Interpol and the Metropolitan Police arrest him with a stolen Matisse.”

Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “You worked with Interpol? How come I never heard about that?”

Neal gave him a look, as if to say ‘are you kidding me?’ Peter shrugged and Neal sighed, dropping his hands in his lap. “If you’d heard, would you have believed that the accident was just that? Wouldn’t you have started digging around? Let’s face it Peter, you rush to judgment, like a kid to an ice cream truck—especially when it concerns me.”

Jones coughed, covering up a laugh and Neal grinned. Peter glared at Jones then glanced back at him. “Okay, so you’re probably right, but why not just tell us? We could have at least known you were still alive, even if you had to go into hiding. It would have been hard, but it’s better than thinking you were dead.”

“Do you remember Keller?”

Peter stiffened and Neal nodded. “Yeah, take him and multiply by ten. Gregory is just as ruthless. He has a network throughout Europe and contacts all over the world. The only way to stay alive was for him and _everyone_ else to believe that we were dead. Including you. Because if you knew we were alive, he would have found out, and used you—or Elizabeth, to get to me. I wasn’t going to let that happen, not again.”

Peter let out a long breath. Everyone was silent. Neal knew Peter wouldn’t— _couldn’t_ argue with that. Not when it concerned Elizabeth’s safety. No matter how you looked at it, Neal knew he’d done the right thing. He’d gone over it so many times, but in the end, there had been only one option, as painful as it was.

“I… I just wish…” Peter trailed off, looking up at him, distraught.

Neal smiled sadly. “I know. But we can’t change the past. As much we might want to… and I’m not sure I would anymore. I’m happy, Peter.” He looked around, Madeline’s toys stored in one corner, the big expansive kitchen just around the corner set up for him, and the office for his schoolwork across the hall. 

“I have a life here that I love, that I wouldn’t give up for anything. Sure, I want out of this chair, and I’m hopeful that one day I’ll be able to walk my daughter down the aisle, but that’s not what matters. I have Sara and Madeline, and a son in a few weeks. I have a beautiful house that was built just for me, and that makes life easier, but everything else? The fact that I’m no longer Neal Caffrey, ex-con, and have the opportunity to start over clean? I never thought that would be possible.”

He paused and ran a hand over his thigh. “We’ll never know what kind of life I could have had in London, but my past would always follow me around. Is this the way I wanted to go about it? No, but I’ve made the most of it and I don’t want to lose it now.”

“Then why take the risk of notifying the museum of the forgery?” Jones asked.

Neal remembered the moment he’d seen the painting, propped up on one of the easels in the back work room for inventory. It was one of his favorites, and it had been years since he’d seen it at the Met. He’d never been allowed to set foot in the museum while he was on the anklet. Seeing it in person, with no security watching and no crowds milling around, had been wonderful. Until he noticed that something was off. He thought it was the angle—he was obviously seeing it from a different perspective than most—but he quickly realized it was a forgery. 

The sheen of the varnish wasn't right. Or, more to the point, the fact that there was varnish. Pissarro had stopped using varnish late in his career. He’d been opposed to the effect it had on the coloring and the matte surface. Oh, it looked real—the brushstrokes were correct, the canvas aged appropriately—but the slightly yellowed varnish gave it away.

He'd stared at it in shock, as he pondered what to do. So accustomed to working on both sides of the law, he didn't know where he belonged now. He couldn't call up Peter anymore, but strangely, he couldn't just leave the forgery there.

“Because I had to,” he finally replied, looking them in the eye. “I couldn't _not_ say something.” He watched a small smile stretch across Peter’s face. 

“How did you know?”

Neal glanced back at Jones. “It was good, _really_ good.” Peter rolled his eyes, and it felt like old times. “But someone forgot to do their homework. Pissarro stopped using varnish on his paintings.”

“Are you sure this isn't one he did varnish?” Peter asked, looking a little skeptical.

“I'm sure. I know this painting. Trust me.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “It's not yours, is it?”

Now it really felt like nothing had changed and he shot Peter an annoyed look. “ _No._ Do you think I would risk that now? Besides, when do I have the time? I'm going to school, interning at the museum and raising a two year old. I haven't painted in months.”

“Just making sure.” To his credit, Peter looked apologetic. 

Neal relaxed. It had been a while since someone accused him of anything. 

“I have painted it though, so that's why I know,” he added.

Peter straightened up suddenly, his eyes narrowed and he looked at Neal intently. “When?”

He shrugged. “I don't know. Sometime when I was in New York. I painted a lot, remember?” he added, looking at Peter pointedly.

“Where is it now?” Jones asked.

Neal glanced between the two. “I put it in storage. But obviously I haven't been back there in years.”

Peter nodded. “I know, we get that,” he reassured him. “But what would have happened to it after you died?”

The proverbial light bulb went off in his head. “You think someone stole my painting?”

“You said it was really good,” Peter pointed out and Neal couldn't help but grin. “Could it be yours?”

Neal paused and tried to remember the painting. He hadn’t intended to study it with such a close eye. It had been years since he’d last laid eyes on it and he had no reason to suspect a forgery. Time away from the FBI and his old life had mellowed him, he surmised. “Possibly. Someone obviously aged it, though.”

“Would you have signed it in any way?” Jones asked, leaning forward.

He shook his head. “No. They weren’t meant to be seen by anyone. I painted them to clear my head. I wasn't expecting anyone to pass them off as the real thing.”

“What would have happened to your storage unit? Is it possible it went up for auction?”

They all remembered the debacle with Mozzie and the auctioned storage unit. It took a split second for them to realize they had their answer.

“Mozzie,” Peter said simply.

Neal nodded and sighed. “Yeah, he had access.”

“Did you ever paint _L'Estaque_ or _La Place Valhubert?_ ”

Closing his eyes and shaking his head, Neal could only laugh at the situation. Even 'dead', he was still committing crimes. “Yes. And they would be in storage.”

“And you haven’t contacted Mozzie, right?” Peter asked, his voice getting that anxious, excited tone of his whenever he got going on a case.

“Like I said before, Peter, I had to make _everyone_ believe I was dead,” he said exasperated. “Especially Mozzie. Granted, that’s a tall order with his paranoia and general lack of trust of anything official, but I knew that if Mozzie believed I was dead, then so would Gregory.”

“ _Exactly!_ ”

Neal blinked and looked at Peter confused.

Peter shook his head and waved a hand in the air. “I mean, if Mozzie knew you were alive, knew the truth, he wouldn't risk your safety.”

“Unless he doesn't know and he’s trying to lure Neal out now,” Jones pointed out.

Frowning, Peter replied, “That's a possibility, but why now? It's been five years.”

“You're trying to understand Mozzie? Really?” Neal asked, a little incredulous. Even after knowing his friend for over a decade, he couldn't begin to explain how the man's mind worked. Mozzie’s paranoid rambles surprised him more often than not.

“You're right, sorry. But it doesn't matter, we still have a job to do.”

“What?” Neal's hands went to his wheels and rolled forward. “Oh, come on, Peter. You can't go after Moz.”

“I can, and I will. This has to stop.” Peter's face was stern and bore no hint of backing down. “Did you know a security guard was shot during one of the thefts?”

Neal froze. “No, that's not possible. Mozzie would never shoot someone, much less carry a gun. You know him, Peter.”

Peter sighed. “Yeah, okay, but that doesn't change anything. We still need to talk to him. He might not have stolen them himself, but he’s involved.”

“He wouldn’t work with someone like that either. He probably just sold them.”

“Sold them?” Jones looked at him surprised.

Neal flashed them a big grin, feeling that old spark that came from a well-planned con. “A Neal Caffrey forgery is worth something to the right person.”

Peter looked heavenward and shook his head, mumbling something under his breath.

Chuckling, Neal rocked his chair back playfully. “Admit it, Peter, you missed me,” he teased. If he were honest with himself, he missed seeing that look on Peter’s face. So many of his antics over the years had been just to rile Peter up.

“I missed _you._ ” Peter pointed at him. “Not the trouble that follows you around.”

“You can’t blame me for this!”

“No, but-”

“I think it’s getting late and we should head on out,” Jones interrupted, cutting them off before they could argue further. 

“It was late when you showed up,” Neal remarked wryly and raised an eyebrow.

Jones coughed and glanced at Peter for a brief second, then back at Neal. “Thompson will interview you tomorrow. I have a few things to go over with Security and after that, we’ll head back to the office to finish up the local side of the investigation.”

Peter frowned, and his face betrayed at his annoyance for a few seconds, before he relaxed and reluctantly nodded. “Right. I’ll have Jones drop me off at the FBI office first, so that I’m not anywhere near the museum.”

Neal raised an eyebrow. “How are you going to explain your sudden visit? It sounds like Jones and Thompson have everything under control.”

“I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry about it.” 

“It’s a little hard _not_ to worry considering that two people from my former life are here, and my name’s been run.” He gave both of them a pointed look. “The Marshals _are_ going to notice that.”

Jones winced. “Sorry about that.”

His lips stretched tight and Neal took a deep breath. “It couldn’t be helped, I realize that. I knew the risk and I took it.” He stopped and thought for a moment. “You ran everyone’s name, right?” Jones nodded and Neal gave him a small smile. “Good. That will help diffuse the attention.”

“How is it that you weren’t flagged?” Jones asked. “You’re in the system—your face, your fingerprints, everything. I know not everyone in Witness Protection is innocent, but I didn’t think they could just erase someone’s criminal history.”

“That’s because Neal Caffrey is dead,” he said. “A dead man can’t walk around or have a driver’s license for that matter.”

“Yes, we _know_ that,” Peter replied exasperated, “but just because Neal Caffrey is dead, doesn’t mean that no one would want to attribute something to your criminal past. Or find some of your old work and want to match fingerprints or what-have-you.”

Neal sighed. “They couldn’t erase Neal Caffrey, so they just made sure I can’t ever be connected to him. Mozzie would be impressed, to say the least. My records from NCIC to Interpol and Europol have been… how should I put it?” He paused. “Disconnected. As it was explained to me—if anyone were to run facial recognition or my fingerprints against those databases, they wouldn’t come up with Neal Caffrey. You’d have to manually compare to get a match.”

Peter cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips. “So if you committed a crime now, they wouldn’t be able to connect you to your past.”

The anger flared up in him again, and Neal’s eyes hardened. “No, but that’s not going to happen. I know you’ve never fully trusted me-”

Peter held up a hand, interrupting him. “Hey, wait a second. I do-”

Neal shook his head. “No, you don’t. You came in here angry—which I understand, but tell me, when Jones first told you I was alive, what was your first thought? “ _'He lied again’ or ‘what did he do now?’_ ” Peter opened his mouth, then closed it and sighed.

Nodding, Neal shot him a look. “It doesn’t matter what I do to prove myself to you. To you, I’m always the con—the criminal that can’t be trusted. I’ll do something that will screw things up. And maybe I did. Maybe I should have let the painting go. Then this wouldn’t have happened, I wouldn’t be putting my family in danger."

“What? Neal, no.” Peter leaned forward and looked at him pleadingly. “You are my friend and I _do_ trust you. And you did the right thing. Don’t doubt that. I’m proud of you. The Neal that I know is a good man. He’s been thrown into some bad situations, and he might have made some poor choices, but I could always trust him.”

Neal looked away, and swallowed the retort on his lips. He didn’t want to argue. Peter might say it now, but death tended to make people only remember the good in someone. For five years Peter had probably mourned the friend he lost, but the second he was alive, Neal was a criminal again. He couldn’t help but lash out. There was always suspicion, mistrust and anger. Forgiveness was an afterthought, if it was there at all.

He knew that Peter never fully trusted him to go straight. They were friends, but they would always be agent and con.

“If I’m arrested, the Marshals will know,” he said quietly. “As they like to remind me, not everyone gets a second chance. I’m a very unique case.”

“That’s an understatement if I ever heard one,” Peter said lightly, and Jones chuckled softly.

Normally he would have beamed with pride, finding their words a compliment, but now it only hurt. His fingers curled tight, and the nails bit into the palm of his hands.

“It’s not just because of the deal you gave me,” he replied, his voice hard, and he forced his hands to lay flat on his legs. “Once you’re out of WitSec, you don’t get to come back. I’m an exception because I was only a kid the first time. We couldn’t stay in Europe—not with Gregory’s network, so Interpol struck a deal with the US Marshals.”

“And you ended up here,” Peter finished, and raised an eyebrow. “I have to say, it’s one of the last places I would have expected to find you.” 

“Especially in suburbia,” added Jones.

Neal rubbed his eyes tiredly and sighed. “That's the point. Neal Caffrey's never been here. I was told to make a list of places where I would be known or had ever allegedly pulled off a con or theft. From there, we were given a choice of cities big enough for Sara to find a job and with good universities for me.” He paused and looked at them wearily. “We’ve made a life here, Peter. We’re _happy_ ,” he stressed.

A pained smile crossed Peter’s face and he nodded slowly. “You deserve it, Neal. I _am_ happy for you—please believe me when I say that.”

“Thank you, Peter,” he replied quietly, and wondered if this was how it was going to end. The two of them yelling and pasting on a smile later, hoping that everything would be all better.

Jones glanced at his watch. “I think we really need to call it a night now. We’re all going to need some sleep if we want to function tomorrow.”

Peter slapped his hands on his legs and exhaled slowly, nodding again. “He's right. But we need to continue this. The case isn't over just because we know Mozzie's behind it. There's still a lot we have to discuss.”

“Is it okay if we come over tomorrow night?” Jones asked, concern evident on his face.

Neal froze, resting his hands on his wheels. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. We’ll be lucky to keep this meeting from the Marshals. If they stop by…”

Peter shared a look with Jones, then glanced back at Neal. “What if we met somewhere else?”

Frowning, Neal thought about leaving Sara and Madeline alone. It wasn’t that Sara couldn’t take care of herself and their daughter, but her nerves would be shot. He didn’t feel right leaving her by herself in this situation. And if the Marshals _did_ show up, he didn’t want Sara to have to lie.

He sighed and shook his head. “No, we’ll do it here—just park in the garage. Let’s try not to announce to the whole world that you’re here.”

“Okay." Peter smiled and gave him a short nod. "We can do that.” He stood up and Jones followed suit.

Neal swiveled and started to lead them back to the front door.

Peter stopped in the front foyer, looked down at him, and asked lightly, “So, how is that you ended up with a house with a three car garage and I'm still parking on the street?”

Neal quirked an eyebrow. “Have you ever tried cleaning snow off your car while sitting down?”

A mortified expression immediately crossed Peter's face and shook his head. “Sorry, I didn't think about that.”

He chuckled. People often slipped up around him, but he was used to it. “Don't worry. I've had to make a lot of adjustments in my life, but at least I get a few perks, like good parking.”

“Right, right...” Peter still looked embarrassed.

“We'll see you tomorrow, Neal,” Jones smiled and gave him a curt nod, turning to open the front door.

Peter stood at the doorway after Jones walked out, and hesitated. He looked down at Neal, his eyes downcast and sad. “I wish we could have been there for you, Neal.” He paused just a moment, then turned and left, the door closing softly behind him.

Neal stared at the door, his heart caught in his throat.

“Me, too, Peter. Me, too,” he whispered.

*~*~*~*

_He was numb._

_Numb from grief, fear... sadness._

_His brain tried to send a signal to wiggle his toes, but nothing happened. He exhaled slowly, and knew he was fooling himself. Nothing had changed since his last attempt. It wasn’t ever going to change. Not now, not tomorrow and certainly not the day after that._

_It was hard to accept. But his fingers drifted down and trailed along his still legs, and it was impossible to deny, feeling only the blanket beneath his fingertips, and not the gentle pressure on his legs. His body wasn’t his own anymore._

_Everything had been turned upside since he'd woken up the day before, hazy, and completely unaware that his life had irrevocably changed._

_He just wanted to rewind—before the car crash, before the Chagall was stolen, before waking up to a new name and a new life. But even he couldn’t pull that off. Time was his enemy. It either slipped through his fingers too fast or too slow._

_All he could focus on was the quiet tick of the clock, counting away to a life he no longer had control over. He was used to change, used to having certain things out of his reach, but this? This… was more than he could handle._

_Waking up and having Reena tell his that his name was now Alec Miller hadn’t worried him. Names were a dime a dozen. But then he’d remembered the accident… and Sara. His last memory was of her being thrown across the cab and watching with horror as her head slammed against the window._

_He'd been afraid of the worst, because he always seemed to lose everyone he loved. His heart had been ready to jump out of his chest as he searched Reena’s face frantically, hopeful for a sign that would tell him otherwise. He hadn’t realized it then, when looking at the anxious expression on her face, that she’d been afraid he’d noticed his legs. But he hadn’t been worried about himself. His only concern had been about Sara._

_It had been a relief to see her dozing in a recliner off to his left, though her face was bruised, and there was a cast on her arm. He didn’t question Reena, just let himself drift back to sleep, thankful that Sara was alive._

_When he woke up next, Sara was there, holding his hand. Still hazy and numb, it hadn't hit him until she told him. Her eyes red and puffy, with dried tear tracks splayed on her cheeks, she’d explained what had happened. It had been like a punch to the stomach, and he'd stared at her in shock as he fought to prove them all wrong, his mind reaching out to feel his legs._

_But it was as if there was nothing there._

_It hurt, unbelievably so, and he’d wanted to cry and scream. But he’d looked at Sara with her battered and bruised body, and realized that he could have lost so much more. He’d pushed his pain aside, just thankful that it’d happened to him, and not her. Sara was alive, and he’d held onto her tightly, letting himself take comfort in that. He would face the rest of it later._

_He didn’t find out about Reena’s offer of Witness Protection until after they talked with the doctors, after he realized his life was never going to be the same._

_Neal didn't know what hurt worse—that they had to go into hiding or that Sara had made the decision willingly. She was giving up her life for him. **Because of him.**_

_It was all his fault. He’d done this to her. Neal gripped the blanket in his hand, breathing in hard. Forget his legs. He’d ruined her life. Kate, Peter and Elizabeth... They all would have been better off without him in their lives._

_He could adapt—used to years of life on the run, of leaving himself behind. A new name, a new city, new circumstances—that was his normal. But it’d been his choice. She didn't deserve this._

_Even so, he was too selfish to let her go. He wanted to wake up beside her every day, to watch her smile and laugh, to start a family with her. Everything he’d dreamt of these past few months. He couldn’t give that up. Not now, not after working so hard to have this second chance. Kate’s face in the window of the plane flashed in his mind, reminding him of how easily he could lose everything._

_He nearly had._

_Was he wrong to keep her in this life? Would he just hurt her again? He'd tried to convince her that she would be better off without him, but she had been firm. It was just a job, she'd told him._

_He knew it was more than that. It was her identity, her sense of self, her life, her past. It didn't matter that she'd lost her family a long time ago, that she had few friends today. She’d made a life for herself in London, and he didn't want her to look back and regret it._

_“I chose my job before,” she'd said softly, looking down where their hands intertwined. “It was lonely.”_

_He hadn't pushed after that, just quietly accepted it, thankful to have her at his side._

_It wasn't going to be easy, he knew that. 'Jessica' felt weird on his tongue, she stumbled over ‘Alec’, and this was only the beginning. They still had to get through the next few months. Both of them would heal with time, and life would eventually return to a semblance of normal._

_Until then, though, it would be a hard road._

_Neal knew she was trying to be strong for him, and he was trying to do the same for her. As the nurses worked around him during the day, moving him, turning him, and doing every little thing that he couldn't do himself, he'd laid there helplessly, and swallowed the fear that was building within him. The fear that threatened to completely overwhelm him._

_Somehow he would get through this, but right now it seemed too impossible to even contemplate._

_He watched shadows dance across the pale walls as the sun set, slowly enveloping the room into darkness. Sara had been discharged earlier and Reena had taken her to a safe house. He was alone now, and the ICU was quiet. He felt a tear slide down his cheek but he made no move to wipe it away. It didn’t matter who saw him now. There wasn’t anyone left to impress._

_He’d been holding it in as the doctors had talked to him, and run tests; as he discovered exactly what he could feel, or rather, couldn’t feel anymore; as he watched the nurses handle him with care, and the reality of his new life hit him hard._

_He gulped back air and stifled a sob. More tears fell, blurring his eyes into a watery kaleidoscope. He finally reached up to wipe them away. He hadn’t lost everything, he tried to convince himself, but that didn’t help much._

_His spine had shattered. His spinal cord had been severed. He was being held together by plates and screws. There were still bone fragments in his back. They were waiting for the swelling to go down before they went in again to remove them. But that wouldn't change anything, he knew that. He held out no hope for a miracle._

_He was paralyzed and it was permanent._

_Neal remembered hearing the word ‘lucky’ from one of the doctors, and his mind had gone into a rage as they talked in clinical terms, explaining why his low break was actually a good thing._

_Good? How was it good? He ran his hands down his legs, still trying to accept the emptiness that he felt below his waist. The sheer nothingness. It didn’t matter what the doctors said. Because he was broken._

_He tossed the blanket aside angrily and stared down at his legs. Right now he couldn’t care less that it could have been worse, that a few inches higher and he could have lost feeling in his chest or even his hands. It was hard to look at the bright side when he couldn’t move—couldn’t do anything but lay there, dependent on everyone else._

_The doctors had been blunt. It would take months of therapy before he could go home and try to get on with his life._

_They didn't know the half of it._

_Neal had no idea what kind of life he and Sara would have, where they would live, what they would do. They would have nothing—no one, to fall back on. For most of his life, he'd had someone. Ellen, Mozzie, Peter. He had taken the leap to move to London, to start over, but he'd always known he had friends at his back. Friends who now thought he was dead._

_It wasn't right that they had to suffer too. He had a lot of regrets over his life, but none more so than the pain he'd caused them over the years. He hated that he was disrupting their lives once more, and wished he could spare them now._

_He thought of June, who'd been so nice and supportive of him. She’d opened her home after losing Byron. This would devastate her._

_Or what about Mozzie? He’d stood by him through everything, and would do anything for him. Neal might have left New York and that life behind, but that didn't matter, not to their friendship. Mozzie would drop everything at a moment's notice for Neal. He probably wouldn't believe that Neal was dead, though, and that worried him. Mozzie would hang on to anything, any possibility, and it would probably be months before he accepted it._

_Then there was Elizabeth, who, despite how rocky the last year and a half had been, had always been the intermediary between Peter's suspicious nature and himself. She'd seen him as a person first and criminal second. He didn't know if without her, that Peter would have given him a chance._

_And Peter?_

_The man had become his best friend, his partner, his conscience._

_Of anyone, he wished he could tell Peter, let him know that it had all been worth it, the years of friendship, the support when no one else believed him, the lies and cover ups for all his mistakes... for making him a better man._

_Neal squeezed his eyes shut and took a long shuddering breath. He couldn't say goodbye to them. After everything, after all they had done for him, they didn't deserve this. To get a phone call and nothing more._

_But it kept them safe. Not just him and Sara, but Mozzie, Elizabeth, Peter, and anyone who had known him. He wouldn't let Gregory use them as leverage. No one else should be hurt because of him, not when he'd hurt them so much before._

_And maybe this was for the best. Trouble followed him around. They’d been through enough and they could move on with their lives now. He would just be a memory. Hopefully they could smile and laugh at the memory, instead of remembering all the chaos he’d brought to their lives. That was all he wanted for them, some happiness, even if it came at his expense. He could live with that._

_It was the only thing he could do for them, because he knew otherwise. There would be no happy ending for everyone. Not this time. He wasn’t walking out of this, wasn’t escaping with a few slick words and a sly grin like so many times before._

_His luck had run out._

_He tugged the blanket back over his legs, the vestiges of his old life too painful to look at. The corner caught on his foot and he yanked at it, frustration building in him at what should have been a simple task. But no, he was flat on his back and couldn't do so much as nudge a blanket over his feet, much less get out of his hospital bed._

_There would be no more sneaking through air vents or dancing past security cameras, but that didn’t bother him as much as everything else._

_He thought about Sara, and wanting to take her to the south of France and walking along the beach, sand between their toes, laughing, stumbling along like drunken teenagers._

_Or having the first dance at their wedding, where he would spin her around and hold her in his arms, as they let the music wash over them, the two of them alone in the moment._

_But that would never happen. There would be no dancing. No looking down in her eyes as he dipped her and kissed her senseless to the whoops and hollers of their friends._

_Or falling into bed, making love to her in the moonlight, and feeling her shudder beneath him. He wouldn't feel that anymore, wouldn't feel her touch..._

_He swiped at his eyes and his heart pounded in his chest._

_It was all gone._

_What kind of life could he give her? He couldn't be there for her—not the way he wanted. He wasn't that man anymore._

_How could she stay with him?_

_His eyes fixed on the ceiling, his chest heaving, and swallowed back the tears. Gone, gone, gone... His life, his friends…. He couldn't feel anything. Nothing. Gasping, his shoulders shook as he cried silently._

_He couldn't lose her too. Not now. Hadn’t he lost enough?_

_He wasn't perfect, wasn’t innocent by any means, and he’d made his fair share of mistakes, but why this? Why now?_

_Why him?_


	3. Chapter 3

The alarm went off way too early. Neal lay in the darkened room, listening to the silence of the early morning, trying to muster the energy to get out of bed. It wasn’t the lack of sleep. He’d gotten used to that long ago, especially since Madeline was born. He glanced over at Sara, who was still sleeping soundly, and let out a heavy sigh. Today was not going to be easy on either of them.

He wondered if he was always destined to hurt the ones he loved. A lifetime of impulsive yet calculated decisions marked his past, and this whole situation was just one more to add to the list. Sara agreed that it had been the right thing to do, but it went unsaid that maybe he should have let this one slide.

During the first few months after the accident they'd been fortunate enough to have protection, even if it had felt stifling at times. Moving to Colorado and living on their own, though, had been one of the most terrifying times of his life. After living on his own and on the run for years, he'd been prepared for some of it—new name, new city, and a new life—but he hadn't been ready for the rest.

Not only was he completely at the mercy of his body and what he could and could no longer do, but this time he was running from a lot more than the FBI. Neal Caffrey was a confident, if somewhat cocky man who had never worried about getting caught. 

That man was gone. 

He was used to looking over his shoulder, being aware of his surroundings, and taking precautions. Those natural instincts were now being used tenfold. Prison, while not desirable and hardly a place Neal wanted to revisit, did not scare him as much as the idea of Gregory finding him again. He'd faced off against people who hadn't cared for him before, but the score had changed. He could no longer defend himself, be it with words or actions. If someone spotted him, he was dead.

And so was Sara.

That's what frightened him the most. If it was just him, he'd be okay. He didn't want to die, but as long as no one else got hurt, he'd take it. Of course, since they'd entered WitSec, things had changed. Now he had a family. Every day he woke up and worried about whether he'd made the right decision, if today would be the day it would all end.

It had gotten easier as the months and years passed, but the worry never left. He could feel all the eyes on him, and it took a lot to ignore them, to move on and relax. To believe that they could do this, that it was possible to live this new isolated life and be happy. 

Had he just wrecked it all?

He supposed it wouldn't be the end of the world to start over again, but they'd put so much effort into their life here that he hated to give it all up. Sara didn't deserve it. His daughter shouldn't have her whole world turned upside down and wonder why her name changed, to lose that innocence of youth as they moved and looked over their shoulders once more. He couldn't do that to her, not after what it did to him as a child.

But if it kept his family safe, he'd do it in a heartbeat. For now, he would have to trust Peter and Jones and hope it didn't come to that.

He'd have to convince everyone, most importantly himself, that this was the right thing to do. He would talk to the FBI and play the part, hide the truth from the US Marshals, and pray he hadn't made another mistake.

So with a deep breath, he pulled himself up and mentally prepared himself for the day to come.

Stepping back into Neal Caffrey's shoes was something he'd given up on long ago. Most days it wasn't hard; his new life was a far cry from the one he'd left behind. As he swung his still legs off the bed and transferred to the chair, he knew it couldn't be more obvious. That life was gone.

It didn't matter that Peter was there, or that Neal Caffrey was a person of interest again, because he didn't exist anymore. He’d moved on and he couldn't—wouldn't—lose the life he had now. There would be no looking back.

*~*~*~*

Sara shuffled into the kitchen bleary eyed an hour later, and headed straight for the coffee machine. Pouring herself her one small cup, she quickly fixed it up with cream and sugar and took a long drink. Neal watched her wordlessly with a smile, and leaned back in his chair. She looked up and returned his tired smile before walking over to the kitchen table, and sinking gratefully into a chair. At this stage of her pregnancy she was extremely uncomfortable, something Neal could do little about beyond rubbing her feet and helping out as much as possible.

She didn't complain much aside from her usual dry sarcasm, which no one could take away from Sara Ellis, even if everything else had changed. He knew it was hard on her, and that having kids had never truly been in her plan, wishful dreams and jokes aside. Sara was a wonderful mother though, and Neal felt extremely lucky with how things had turned out. 

Wheeling over to the table, he leaned over and kissed her softly. “Good morning.”

She raised an eyebrow and clutched her mug tightly. “Morning. So, are you going to keep me in suspense?”

He chuckled and shook his head. Count on Sara to get straight to the point despite being half awake and exhausted. But he didn't blame her, seeing as he was anxious himself to see how it all played out today. He held out a hand and she reached out, letting him take her hand in his.

“We're okay—we're not going anywhere.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Really?”

He nodded and gave her a reassuring smile, squeezing her hand. “Jones made the connection and called Peter. No one else knows.”

Sara's mouth opened and shut a moment later as she worked through this. She visibly relaxed and slumped back against her chair, closing her eyes. Her hand dropped to her stomach, and she was still for several seconds.

Opening her eyes, she looked at him, worried. “You think it can stay that way?”

He shrugged and backed up slightly in order to move his chair closer to the table. “Only time will tell, but the FBI has no reason to look into me or the museum anymore. We figured out last night that the forgery did in fact come from New York.”

“How?”

Neal hesitated. “It's my painting.” 

“What?” Sara's eyes narrowed, and he winced. His wife was a force to be reckoned with on any normal day, but add in pregnancy hormones, and she could be downright terrifying sometimes.

He held up his hands. “It's not what you think. Apparently Mozzie has been selling some of the paintings I had in storage.”

That seemed to pacify her just a smidge, but the mention of Mozzie didn't do anything to calm her down. The two of them had never been too friendly, even when Sara reluctantly dipped a toe into grayer areas, appeasing Mozzie for the most part. This new situation would probably not endear him to her, especially if they had to move. But thankfully, his friend was half a continent away.

“I don't think he's behind any of the thefts himself, but a few of my paintings have popped up lately,” he explained with a small shrug of his shoulders. “Although, since I can't look at the painting again, we're not one hundred percent certain.”

Sara sighed. “So what happens now?” she asked, and took a sip of her coffee, before setting it back down.

“Well, today I'll be interviewed by another agent, a probie Jones brought along,” he clarified quickly at the look of alarm on her face. “He's never met me and shouldn't recognize me. This way, no one will be able to connect Jones to me. Peter's going to stay at the FBI office, and then tonight they'll come over to work on the case.”

She froze for a second and then blinked. “Wait, _here_? Again?” 

Neal picked up her hand again, and ran his thumb over her palm gently. “Hey, I’m not happy about it either, but they need my help, and I’m not leaving the two of you alone.”

“But is it worth the risk, Neal?” Her eyes flared and she sat up straight. “They know it’s Mozzie. And I get it, he’s your friend, but is it worth losing everything all over again?”

“A security guard was shot. I'm not going to let him take the fall for that.”

Sara shook her head and looked off in the distance, clearly debating how she felt about that. After a moment she glanced back with a grimace. “I suppose something like this had to happen eventually.”

“It's going to be okay, I promise.” The words were hollow, he knew, but he needed to reassure himself as much as he did her. “We're taking all the precautions we can, but this needs to be done.”

“That means going after Mozzie.” She raised an eyebrow.

Neal nodded and sat back with a sigh. “It does. But I think I convinced Peter to talk to him, get his help, and go after the real thieves.”

“And they need your help to track him down,” she said, her voice tired and full of resignation.

Neal paused. “I'm sorry,” he replied quietly. And he really was, no matter what happened now. He hadn't expected any of this, and could only hope that they would move on from this without any repercussions.

She pursed her lips and ran a hand over her stomach slowly. He knew what she was thinking—wondering if the worry would ever go away, if they could have a normal life. He wished he could put her at ease, especially now with the birth looming. If they could just get past this…

She took a deep breath and glanced over at him. “We can't change anything now, and the sooner we get on with the day, the sooner all of this will be over. I'm going to go wake up Madeline. We'll talk more later.”

As she awkwardly pushed herself up, the doorbell rang and they both looked up startled. Neal watched as her hand gripped the back of the chair and she paled, ever so slightly. 

“Go on and take care of Madeline. I'll handle it. It's probably just Mrs. Lederman looking for her cat again.” He tried to give her a reassuring smile, but she appeared to believe it as much as he did.

Without a word she walked out of the kitchen, and he followed closely on her heels. He felt his stomach clench, and wheeled to the front door hoping to indeed find one of their neighbors. Moving the curtain aside on the narrow window to the left of the door, he looked out and sighed when he spotted the familiar face of Erin Matthews, their US Marshal.

He quickly unlocked and backed up, opening the door wide.

“Erin, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Good morning to you, too,” she replied, with a slight edge to her voice. Then she smiled seconds later and Neal felt himself relax. “Sorry to come over so early, but I needed to catch you before you went to work today.” She walked past him and waited for him to close and lock the door.

Erin had been the Inspector assigned to them when they had officially joined WitSec five years ago. After years of dealing with the US Marshals and their less than pleasant attitude around him, Neal had been leery of working with them again. 

Erin, though, had surprised him. On his last day at rehab, she’d shown up, introduced herself, and with a bright smile told him, _“Thanks for the vacation. I’ve always wanted to see London.”_

He had known that not all US Marshals would be like John Deckard. However, as a prisoner and ex-con he was used to the mistrust and rough handling. Erin was blunt, but she treated him like a human being. She reminded him a bit of Diana, with her tough as nails personality, and scant patience for nonsense. He later found out that that was due to growing up with three older brothers, and not just the profession. 

They got along well, though, and she never threatened to break his arms, so he considered that a win.

Neal was concerned about her appearance now. He could see her gun peeking out from underneath her jacket, and while that was required of her, she usually left it in her car because of Madeline.

“What's up?” he asked, leading them to the kitchen. 

Not wanting to give anything away, he opened a drawer and pulled out a measuring cup. He poured out oats and dumped them in the pot he’d taken out earlier. First rule of a con: act normal. Besides, he needed to get breakfast going. Madeline was a little whiny in the mornings, and it was best to get some food in her.

“I’m pretty sure you know why I’m here.” She leaned against the large island in the middle of the kitchen and crossed her arms over her chest.

Unfortunately, he did. But he could not let on that Peter and Jones had visited. He snapped the lid shut on the oats container and glanced up. “Please tell me you’re not upset with me too.”

Second rule: get them on your side.

The corner of her mouth quirked up. “Sara?”

Neal grimaced. “It’s not exactly the best timing.”

Erin let out a soft laugh. “I don’t blame her, and yeah, I wouldn’t have minded a heads up too.”

He pushed away from the counter and spun around. Sliding in the open space under the island counter, he looked up at her. “Sorry about that. I had to make a quick decision, and there wasn’t time to stop and take a vote.” He reached to his right where there was a small sink and waved his hands under the faucet, turning on the water. It was hard to keep his hands clean when he constantly had to wheel around. 

“Well, next time, just let me know before I find out that the FBI ran your name.”

“I’m hoping there won’t be a next time,” he shot back and dried his hands, trying to keep his voice from betraying the utter relief he felt from hearing her words. They weren’t going anywhere. Not now, at least. He leaned over and opened a cabinet on his left to pull out a cutting board.

“They’re probably going to talk to you today. I just want you prepared,” she said finally.

“I think I know how to handle questioning. Besides,” he stopped and rested his hands on the counter. “I’m sure they ran everyone’s name, right?” She frowned slightly, but nodded. “It’s not like they’re going to look at me and suspect that I stole it.” He could play the wheelchair card, no problem. Like he told Peter, he had to get some perks out of it.

Erin sighed and dropped her arms. “Look, just be careful. If anyone so much as looks at you suspiciously, if you think they recognize you—call me.”

He almost smiled, but schooled his face into the appropriate concern. It was ironic that he had to hide from law enforcement again. Normally when criminals entered WitSec, the local authorities were notified, but they had to keep his presence off their radar. All around, he was a special case, and Erin didn't let him forget it. (She often grumbled and teased him that he was making her work harder.)

But thankfully, it appeared that she hadn’t heard that agents from New York were handling the case. That was good news.

“I will, but don't worry. I'm pretty sure I haven't been on the FBI's most wanted list in several years, so they've probably forgotten about me.” He gave her a blinding smile, and she shook her head and laughed.

“Let's hope.”

*~*~*~*

True to their word, Neal didn't see Peter or Jones at the museum that day. He was pulled aside to talk with Agent Thompson, and the man was competent, but it was laughable how little he truly questioned Neal. And he doubted Jones had let the agent know that they had figured out where the forgery had come from. It was obvious, at least to him, that they didn't suspect anyone switched out the painting in Denver. They were just going through the motions.

It was interesting though, listening to the chatter amongst the employees about the forgery. Some people still didn't believe it was a forgery, and others were caught up in the excitement of having the FBI there. He tried to keep out of it, but smiled and explained when someone asked how he'd discovered it. Normally he'd be beaming with pride. But he wasn't Neal Caffrey anymore.

It hadn't been easy in the beginning. While he was thankful to be alive and to have Sara at his side, it was hard to let go of the life he'd led for so long. Memories of escaping to Cape Verde and the unease of slipping into a new name, a new life, at a time when he hadn’t wanted to run, had been hard to forget. He'd foolishly let himself believe that it didn't matter, that he could start over just as easily as he had done before. But he'd quickly realized that he wasn't just leaving behind a name, but a part of himself.

He knew he was more than a conman or a thief, but those skills, that mentality, had been the core of his being for so long that it was a loss almost as painful as that of his legs. After losing everything all at once, he'd realized that he’d have to build himself a totally new life.

His new, more domestic life made him happy though. Although this incident reminded him of his former life, he knew he wouldn't give it up for anything—a fact evidenced by the lengths they were going to in order to make sure that the US Marshals didn't get wind of Jones and Peter's presence in the area. Neal knew he was risking it all by having them over again, but like he'd told Sara, it was necessary. It was better to contain the situation now rather than later.

He also had to admit that he wanted to see them again. If nothing else, Neal knew he needed to talk to Peter now that the shock and anger would have worn off.

It was as he drove home later that day, that he contemplated whether or not they could keep in touch somehow. Over the years he'd been tempted to reach out, but the memory of the accident and the guilt he still carried over putting Sara through so much kept him from doing so. He didn't know if he was being selfish, putting his family at risk, but now that Peter knew the truth, knew the consequences, it wasn’t something he could ignore.

He pulled into the daycare and parked near the front door. Staring out at the playground where the older kids were playing, he couldn't help but remember the fear he'd felt when Madeline was born. Aside from the normal fears of a new parent, he'd been terrified that he was wrong to bring an innocent person into this life. Erin had reassured him that this was normal, but he shouldn't worry. The more time that passed, the safer they were, and he shouldn't give up on having a family.

Leaving her at daycare the first time had been difficult, to say the least. The Marshals had thoroughly checked out the center and all its employees. This particular center didn’t have a lot of turnover and very few part time employees. Only four people were ever allowed to pick her up—him, Sara, Erin, and her partner David.

And now with their second child on the way, Neal couldn't help but rue the timing of everything. Having the FBI around and having Erin pop in made for tense times. Despite the underlying fear that came with living in Witness Protection, Neal and Sara had finally relaxed and their life was somewhat normal. 

The day-to-day stress and worry that used to be the rule rather than the exception of Neal’s old life was now back in full force. Neal had to admit that he didn’t miss it.

With a sigh, he opened his door and started to reassemble his chair. There wasn't much he could do about it now. He transferred and headed into the daycare.

“Hey, Mr. Cameron!”

Neal flashed a grin at the young woman who walked towards him. “Hey, Julie.” He knew everyone who worked at the center, and likewise, they all recognized him. (Granted, that wasn’t too hard, given that he was in a wheelchair.) It made him more comfortable though, and he knew Madeline was safe.

She picked up a clipboard from the small table along the wall and handed it to him. “So, it’s almost time. Ready for baby number two? That's all Madeline's been talking about lately.”

“Tell me about it,” he chuckled. “We're just hopeful she’s as excited when the baby actually arrives.” He quickly signed his name on the log and passed it back.

Julie scoffed. “Good luck with that. My older sister was so upset that she had to share my parents’ attention. She let it be known to everyone and was generally a terror until she realized I wasn’t leaving. After that, she just tried to get rid of me herself.”

Neal winced and wondered what he would have done if he’d had a younger sibling. “Yeah, I’ve heard stories. We’ve tried to prepare her, but obviously we’ll have to see how she handles it.”

“Daddy!”

Neal looked up as his daughter ran towards him, dragging along her small backpack. It never failed to make him smile, the way her eyes lit up when she saw him. She dropped the bag on the floor at his feet and climbed up on his lap.

He hugged her tightly, and in that moment he knew he would do anything for her. If that meant saying goodbye to Peter, then that's what he would do. Nothing mattered more than her growing up safe and happy.

*~*~*~*

_“Come on, kiddo. It's just you and me today.” Neal reached up to swivel the car seat towards him and unsnapped the harness. “Think we can handle it without Mommy?”_

_Madeline grinned and her arm flailed out at him. “Shop!”_

_Neal laughed. She was definitely her mother's daughter. He double checked that his brakes were set before lifting her out of the bright red car seat and onto his lap. With Sara still working her big case at the office, the grocery shopping was left up to him. Normally he prepared a list and she took Madeline with her on the weekend—it was easier for her to push a cart around the store._

_But he didn't mind shopping today. In fact, it was something he missed. Granted, it wasn't going to be easy, especially with Madeline in tow, and he could only get enough groceries for the weekend._

_He wheeled them into the store, then set her down and grabbed a hand basket. “Stay close to me sweetie, okay?”_

_Neal knew he didn't have long before she tired out, and moved to the produce section as quick as her little legs could keep up. In a few months she'd turn two, something that Neal could scarcely believe—it felt like yesterday that he'd held a tiny little baby in his arms. She was growing into a beautiful girl, and he loved just watching her as she took everything in with big eyes._

_After filling up half the basket, they moved back to the meat section and the air cooled as he wheeled along, looking at the cases. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her lagging behind and looking around._

_“Madeline, walk next to me, please.”_

_He hated that he couldn't walk alongside her and hold her hand, or push her in a stroller, but he tried to make up for it by carrying her in his lap when he could. She loved his 'rides' and he rued the day when she'd become too big for him._

_“Can I help you sir?”_

_Neal looked up at a man dressed in a butcher's apron, standing next to a cart filled with shrink-wrapped chicken breasts. After explaining the cut of beef he was looking for, the man helped dig around the upper shelf before turning to go see if there were some in the back. He sighed briefly then looked to his left to see how Madeline was holding up, but she was gone. Spinning around, his head snapped left and right, but still there was no sign of Madeline._

_“Madeline!” he called out, and pushed himself around the low freestanding refrigerated case._

_She wasn't there._

_His heart started to pound and he glanced around, spotting some colorful seasonal merchandise on an end cap and down the next aisle. There was no giggling redhead playing with the summer toys when he turned the corner._

_“MADELINE!!”_

_She didn't pop out from behind the stands of pastel pitchers and plastic glassware, or answer his call._

_He spun around and wheeled to the next aisle. No Madeline. He went to the next. No Madeline._

_No, no, no! This couldn't be happening. Frantically, he pushed to the next aisle. He would not lose her too. Not now. What had he done to deserve this? They hadn't done anything wrong. Told no one, contacted nobody. He'd gone straight, played by their rules._

_“Sir?”_

_He tried the next aisle, paying no attention to the young man who had just been helping him. It was crowded with people and he craned his neck to look past them._

_“Sir?”_

_Neal stopped and looked up. A store manager was there now. “My daughter—she wouldn't wander off. She wouldn't...” He stumbled over his words, and kept looking around._

_“What does she look like? What is she wearing?” the manager prompted him, but Neal barely heard. He shoved his basket at someone, and continued to the next aisle, then circled back to the refrigerated cases in the middle of the meat section, where it had all started._

_The two men followed him, and there was a squawk of a radio._

_“Are you sure?” he heard the words questioned softly. There was another squawk. “Call the police.”_

_Neal spun around and stared up at the men, wide-eyed. No. Not his daughter. The apologetic look on the manager's face did nothing to alleviate the cold tendrils of fear that gripped him and threatened to break him._

_“Let's go up to my office.”_

_Numbly, he nodded and took one more glance around the store. His little girl was nowhere to be seen. And it was his fault._

_With trembling hands, he pulled his phone out and quickly thumbed to his contacts. He hesitated a moment over Sara's name, then moved to the next one and hit the call button. Blinking back tears, he took a deep breath as it rang three times before Erin picked up._

_“Someone grabbed Madeline.”_


	4. Chapter 4

_Sara brushed some hair out of her eyes and glanced between the papers in front of her and the computer monitor. Sighing, she stabbed at the limp salad in its plastic container, wondering where the day had gone. She was used to long hours. She usually never minded them, even when long hours turned into weekends, but now things were different. Summer was just starting. She was looking forward to it, now that Madeline was at an age to enjoy it._

_She had never thought of herself as a maternal person, but Neal's joy was infectious. There were no words to describe how much she loved her daughter. She might not have envisioned having children when she was younger, but she’d never expected her life to turn out the way it had either._

_It wasn’t an easy life, certainly not perfect, but she wouldn’t trade it for anything._

_Her cell phone rang, flashing Neal’s name on the screen. She felt bad that he had to take care of everything by himself today, as he had been doing for the past week because of the case, but she knew he enjoyed the time he got alone with Madeline. Years ago, she never would have guessed that a little girl would have Neal Caffrey wrapped around her finger, but he adored her so much._

_That made her all the more happy that they’d been given the chance to start a family. After losing nearly everything, she hadn’t been sure that they’d be able to—much less that they’d want to—considering the circumstances. It was after things settled down and they got married that they finally decided to try._

_“Please tell me she didn’t guilt you into buying her ice cream again,” she teased, glancing at the framed photo of Neal and Madeline on her desk._

_With his next words, she felt all the blood drain from her face._

_It was nearly two hours later when Neal and Erin finally entered the US Marshals office. After Neal’s call, she’d waited anxiously for a Marshal to pick her up at her office, even though she’d wanted to drive out to the grocery store right that second. But she understood that there was protocol to follow, precautions to be taken. She didn’t like it, but she had no choice in the matter._

_It had been harder to sit and wait, with no one able to tell her anything. When she saw Neal arrive by himself, it hit her like a punch to her stomach._

_Her little girl was gone._

_She knew her mother had always wondered what she could have done, what had made Emily run away, but Sara hadn’t expected to feel the sheer terror of the unknown herself._

_Neal was in her arms a moment later, and she let herself break down, tears streaming down her face._

_“I’m sorry… so sorry…” he whispered over and over. They sat there, frozen in the moment, crying and clutching each other tightly. She crawled into his lap and held onto him as though he was going to disappear too. She couldn’t handle that. Not now. She needed him, needed his calming voice and tender touch because her world was crumbling around her._

_She was used to being the tough one, holding her head up high and shoring up her defenses against anything or anyone that could hurt her. The pain of loss had become the rule instead of the exception in her life, from an early age. Perhaps it had made her a cynical and distrustful person. People thought of her as a bitch, but she's not sure she could have made it this far otherwise._

_Today though... the strength that had helped her through so much over the years had evaporated, threatening to leave her a shell of the person she'd always known._

_She could barely comprehend how it happened, despite the fear they’d lived with every day for the past four years. Some days she managed to forget. Then she’d catch herself watching for a tail or shielding herself from a camera's eye._

_There would be no rest, no happy ending for them because it would never end. And now they'd brought their innocent daughter into it._

_Sara straightened up and swiped at her eyes when she caught movement a few feet away. Erin stood there, waiting patiently, allowing them their grief, but they had to talk. She wanted—no, **needed** to know more. Standing up, she adjusted her clothes quickly, pulled herself together, because she might have lost her strength but she wouldn't let them take anything else away from her._

_They followed Erin into a conference room. It was small and private, and it looked the same as it did four years ago. There were no windows, because if they weren’t safe out there, then at least they were supposed to feel safe here. But that didn’t reassure her, not right now. Erin moved a chair away from the table for Neal before taking a seat across from them. Sara eyed the folder in the woman's hands. Her stomach clenched. She was both anxious and afraid to see what was in there. Did she want to see photos of her daughter being led away, alone and scared?_

_Erin paused, her hand resting on top of the pale blue folder, looked at them uneasily. “We have the video from the grocery store and we isolated the man that took your daughter. They left in a crowd of people, so we don't have a clear shot of them, but the techs have footage of him entering the building. They've identified his car. The police are out looking for it, as well as broadcasting it in the Amber Alert.”_

_“You don't have the license plate, do you?” Neal asked, leaning forward and reached for the folder, but didn’t open it right away. There was no sign of the emotional father from just moments before, his tone all business, and Sara suddenly wondered if they had to deal with it as if it was a case. But it hurt too much to think that way, this was their **daughter**._

_“No, we can only tell the make and model from the video.”_

_Neal closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Color?”_

_She grimaced slightly. “The video outside the store was black and white. All we can say is dark at this point.”_

_“Traffic cameras?”_

_Shaking her head, she replied, “This isn’t New York City, I’m afraid. We only have cameras on the highway. But we are monitoring them and checking the red light cameras.” Erin reached over to open the folder. She pushed aside a few photos before pulling out a still of a car. “His car had a few identifying marks that we’re looking for—bumper stickers, a dented fender.”_

_Neal opened his eyes and stared at the photo for several beats then nodded numbly. He shuffled through the photos slowly, stopping at a color one from inside the store. She couldn’t see it, but her imagination filled in the blanks. Before she could gather the strength to look at them herself, he dropped the photos on the table. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. His hands rested on his wheels and he tapped them absently, his eyes still locked on the folder._

_Sara watched him wearily, knowing that this was the time when he'd normally go about doing his own thing, ignoring all the rules that law enforcement had to abide by. But he couldn't now. It wasn’t just because of the chair, though. They were on lockdown. The Marshals weren’t going to let them out of their sight. Neal couldn’t slip out unnoticed and there was no Mozzie to call for help or a distraction._

_She knew that it was killing him, to sit back and wait. There weren’t many times that he was visibly frustrated by the wheelchair, but today it was all coming to a head._

_He tried so hard not to rely on other people. She’d had to bite her tongue too many times to count as he fought his body and people’s expectations. Now, not only was he limited by the Marshals, but he couldn’t even help the way he knew how. On top of that, she knew he blamed himself._

_She didn’t blame him, because none of this was his fault and doing so wouldn’t help the situation. She’d seen what it had done to her parents. Their marriage had barely survived._

_“What about Gregory?” Neal asked, closing the folder with a snap._

_“We’ve put calls in to Interpol to find out if they know where he is and what he’s been up to. They’re looking into that and any known associates of his. We do know that he entered the US two weeks ago in Boston.”_

_Sara’s breath caught in her throat._

_Neal looked up sharply. “Is he still here?”_

_Erin shook her head. “No, Homeland Security has him leaving five days later. But he could have flown back in under an alias. Or he could have ordered this from afar.”_

_Sara didn’t understand how anyone could just order a little girl kidnapped, but men like Gregory had no scruples. But why would he have flown to the US to begin with? Like Erin said, he could have just as easily ordered it from Europe. What was in Boston?_

_Then it hit her._

_“Do we know if he left Boston at all?” she asked, her heart pounding. If she was right…_

_Erin frowned and leaned forward. “No plane tickets in his name, but he could have driven or taken a bus or train. Why?”_

_Sara sat up straight. “Because two paintings were stolen from the Institute of Contemporary Art last week. The police have no suspects.”_

_They both looked at her surprised. Neal cocked his head to the side, and looked at her curiously. “How do you know that?”_

_“It **is** my job,” she stressed. “I keep up with things.”_

_“If that’s the case…” Erin paused a moment. “We may have this all wrong.” She abruptly stood up, reached for the folder, and briskly walked out of the room._

_Neal glanced back at her and wordlessly grabbed her hand, giving it a squeeze. If there was a look of defeat on his face, a staunch denial of the fact that someone could be hurting their daughter, they didn’t mention it. They couldn’t think like that now._

_An hour and a half later, Erin burst back into the conference room with a grim look on her face. Sara was ready to climb the walls—she had nothing to do but imagine every outcome. Even though she hadn’t looked at the photos, her mind had easily supplied an image of her daughter in that man’s hands. Pacing the small room, arms wrapped around her chest tightly, she’d stared at the floor in a trance, waiting for something—anything. She just wanted to know. Not knowing was worse._

_“Police just found the guy. He was at a local park, watching the kids. A mom called it in.”_

_Sara stopped in her tracks; her eyes shot up, wild and desperate. Was this it? Was this the moment everything changed?_

_“Madeline?” Neal asked without pause._

_“She wasn’t with him.”_

_“What?” Sara stared at Erin in shock. She grabbed onto the nearest chair, feeling her knees ready to give out and took a deep breath. All she could think… all she could do was picture her little girl found in some dirt hole in the woods or tossed to the side of the road. She wanted to scream._

_“Are we sure it’s him?” she heard Neal ask, his voice calm but shaky. How could he be so damn composed?_

_“Oh, it’s him. But he claims he never took her. The police tried to question him, but he lawyered up when he was shown photos from the grocery store.”_

_“So, that means what?” Sara looked up, afraid of what the answer would be. “He took her somewhere?” If the guy didn’t talk…_

_“We will find her, Sara. It’s in his best interest to talk,” Erin replied, her voice a careful tone of reassurance that Sara found hard to believe. Not now, when they had nothing to go on._

_Neal frowned, hesitating slightly. “You said he was watching the kids?” Erin nodded and he leaned forward. “But why, if he stashed Madeline somewhere? That doesn’t make any sense. It’s too risky to try again so soon.”_

_“We’re not talking about a guy in his right mind, I’m afraid.”_

_Neal shook his head. “No, that’s not why.” Erin raised an eyebrow. He waved her off. “I just mean, he wasn’t off enjoying-” Sara shuddered and closed her eyes, “-his success. I’m wondering if he was telling the truth. You said you couldn’t see them leave the store, right?”_

_Sara’s eyes snapped open. She stared at her husband, wide-eyed._

_“You think…”_

_Erin shot up from her seat. She was across the room in a few short steps, yanking open the door. The blinds shook and clanged against the glass. Neal was seconds behind her, his chair bumping against the door as it closed behind her, pushing his way through. Sara hastily followed them, and they wound their way through the corridors._

_When they finally stopped at a door, Erin led them into a small room filled with computers. Sara looked around, taking in the racks blinking on the wall, and the various equipment on the tables._

_“I need you to pull up the footage outside the store.”_

_A young man with dark brown hair and square glasses nodded and started tapping on his keyboard. He was wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and ratty sneakers, obviously having been called in because of the incident._

_Erin turned towards a large TV on the wall. An image of the parking lot filled the screen. “Let's see it.”_

_They all watched as people scattered as they left the store, walking towards their cars. Suddenly Neal called out, “Stop!” The image froze immediately._

_He wheeled closer to the TV, pointing up. “See that guy? He has no bags.”_

_“Shit,” Erin cursed under her breath, turning back to the tech guy. “Jason, can you pull up images of the guy in the store?”_

_“Sure, just give me a minute.” Jason clicked some more. His eyes flicked to a secondary monitor to his right. Sara waited anxiously, now hoping that Neal's suspicions were correct. She stared at the screen, the frozen image of the man that had laid hands on her daughter. She still hadn't seen his face. Sara was pretty sure she didn't want to, afraid of the nightmares that would plague if she knew what he looked like._

_Not that she wasn't going to have nightmares anyway, but his face would be burned into her brain. Like Gregory’s._

_Two windows popped up on the screen, were quickly resized and arranged next to the frozen video. You still couldn't see his face—the black and white video was too blurry. The video inside of the store was better, however it was of his backside. But it was clear that they were wearing the same clothes._

_“She got away,” she breathed, shaking, and nearly collapsed again._

_Neal spun around. He looked up at her, his eyes bright, the wide grin on his face belying the immense relief both of them felt. It wasn’t over yet, but they had hope now._

_Erin had her cell phone out in a flash, quickly scrolling down the screen with her thumb. Just as she hit the call button, she glanced back at Jason. “Thanks a lot.”_

_Jason smiled, giving her a short nod as she focused on her call. “This is Inspector Matthews. I just rewatched the video footage of our guy leaving the store. He didn't leave with the girl. She's still there. I need police combing every inch of that store and the surrounding area.”_

_She motioned towards them. Sara moved to the door as Erin listened intently to whoever she had called. “Right, thanks. I'm with the parents. We're heading out now. Call me as soon as you find her.”_

_They walked back to the conference room where Sara picked up her purse, then to Erin's desk for her keys. Less than five minutes later they were pulling out of the parking garage with David, her partner, driving the large government SUV. The drive was silent, no one saying a word as they navigated downtown Denver and sped onto the highway, the traffic moving quickly in the early Saturday evening. Neal held onto Sara's hand tightly, and she prayed for the nightmare to be over._

_Halfway there, the silence was broken by the shrill ring of Erin's phone. Sara caught Neal's eye and they shared an uneasy smile. The excitement they’d felt just minutes earlier was tempered by the fact that it wasn’t over yet. This could still all end in a way that would destroy their lives. More than Gregory ever had._

_“Matthews.”_

_Sara held her breath. Time seemed to stand still as Erin listened to the other person talk. She couldn't see the Inspector, and could only wait as the one sided conversation went on._

_“How is she?”_

_She nearly wept when she heard Erin voice those three short words, and felt Neal's hand squeeze hers even harder._

_“Okay, we're about twenty minutes out.” There was a beat. “Yes, thanks.”_

_Erin then twisted around so she could look at them. She smiled wide, the relief visible and real. “They found Madeline—she's alright. Apparently she wandered into one of those playsets outside the store. She was asleep when they found her.”_

_Sara covered her mouth, and her shoulders shook as the tears she'd been holding back escaped. She slumped against the seat, all her energy zapped by the day's events. All she could think about was holding her daughter in her arms._

_Neal's hands reached over, pulling her down in his lap. She felt his fingers thread through her hair, his thumb rubbing gently down her neck, and she felt herself relax against him._

_“Think we can get her an anklet?” he murmured, his voice low and tired._

_Sara let out a muffled laugh and closed her eyes. It might not be a bad idea. She never wanted to go through that again._

*~*~*~*

Peter was tired. It had been a late night, driving to their hotel and checking in at two a.m., but he couldn't turn off his brain. The news that Neal was alive was shocking enough, but seeing him in a wheelchair and learning what he had gone through was a bitter pill to swallow. For years he had remembered his friend as a bright, if infuriating, young man who would always land on his feet and get himself out of a tight spot no matter the situation.

It was hard to see him now, despite the apparent happiness he'd achieved.

He desperately wanted to talk to Elizabeth, but it had obviously been too late to call her last night, and Peter knew he wouldn't be able to get a hold of her during the day. But he'd also realized later in the afternoon, that he _couldn't_ tell her. Not yet, at least. Neal had kept them in the dark for their protection. It hurt to think about keeping this from his wife, but it wasn't his decision.

There had been many things he'd told his wife in confidence over the years, but nothing this serious. She knew he didn't tell her specifics to keep her safe, but this was about everyone's safety. Including a little girl and a baby boy.

It was unlikely that anything would ever happen, not after so many years, but he wouldn't be able to live with himself if something did happen.

This would just be one secret he'd have to keep to himself.

“You okay?”

Peter looked over at Jones, and smiled sadly. “Yeah, I'm good.” They were on their way back to Neal's after having dinner with Thompson and leaving him at the hotel. Thompson didn't know why Peter was there, or what they were up to, but the young agent hadn't asked questions, much to his relief.

He could barely wrap his head around the situation, and was still reeling from it all. Neither he nor Jones had talked about Neal since the previous night, and a small part of Peter wondered if it had all been a dream. 

“I…” he started, then stopped and shook his head. “I guess I still can’t believe it.” He sighed and looked out the window. The stars barely lit up the night sky, and only the passing light on the highway illuminated the fields around them. He felt like the darkness was swallowing him up. “I’d finally gotten to a point where I was okay. I missed him, but it didn’t hurt as much.”

“Time will do that to you. The pain fades eventually.”

Peter scoffed. “Yeah, one would hope after five years. Too bad no one clued us in that it was all a con.” 

“It wasn’t a con, Peter.”

He drew in a ragged breath and pinched the bridge between his eyes. “I know. I… I just don’t know what’s worse—being oblivious or…” he stopped, and closed his eyes, the familiar ache tugging at his heart.

“Knowing he’s here, alive, and having to say goodbye again,” Jones filled in, softly.

Peter just kept staring out at the dark night. 

“When's your flight back?” Jones asked, glancing over.

“Saturday afternoon,” he replied absently. “I didn't know how long you'd need me.”

Jones nodded. “I had no idea what would happen with Neal. How he would play into the investigation.” He paused. “Ryan and I are leaving in the morning. There's nothing more for us to do, and I didn't think it was wise to stick around.”

Peter sighed. “That's probably a good idea. I guess I could try to move up my flight.”

“I think you should stay. You and Neal need to talk—alone.” Jones gave him a pointed look. “It's been five years, Peter. Finding him like this... don't tell me that you're still not angry. There's a lot you both need to get off your chests.”

“But I can't risk his safety. I don't want to be the one who makes him lose everything. _Again_. This is risky enough.”

Jones shook his head. “Do you really think you can just fly home after all this and go on like everything’s normal? It's worth the risk and I think Neal would agree. We've taken precautions, but if the Marshals find out we'll deal with it.”

The younger agent didn't say anything more, and Peter sat there silently, mulling it over. Normally he would agree, his belief in the FBI and the system were strong, but after his arrest, doubts had lingered.

But he also couldn't disagree with the truth behind Jones' words. He needed to talk with Neal. They would work on the case tonight, and he was sure that there would be time to talk, but they had five years to catch up on. _Not that one night was enough_ , he thought wryly.

They pulled up to Neal's house, and Jones parked in front of the single garage on the side. Peter glanced at Jones. “I'll let Neal decide.”

Jones smiled and gave him a quick nod. “Sounds like a plan.”

Peter walked to the front door, briefcase in hand. Sara answered the door moments after he rang the doorbell. “Hi, Sara,” he greeted her. 

He shifted his weight uncomfortably, and smiled awkwardly. He hadn't known what kind of reception he'd get today, and felt a little unsure of how to act around her. The gravity of the situation was hard to ignore, and although he was happy to be there and know the truth, he understood it put them in a difficult position.

She opened the door wide and waved him inside. “Hey Peter, come on in. Just wait a moment while I go open the garage.”

Wiping his feet on the doormat, he followed Sara in, and watched her turn left and walk down the hallway. He hesitated momentarily in the foyer and looked around curiously. He’d only given the house a cursory glance last night, too preoccupied with Neal and the shock of seeing him again.

The living room was open and airy, with windows lining the back wall overlooking the backyard, and hardwood floors. Overall, it had a contemporary feel, with a charcoal gray sectional, pale gray walls and a splashy black vertical fireplace with sparkling blue crystals instead of logs. A large TV sat on top of a dark mahogany entertainment stand along one wall.

He walked into the room and noticed that while it was modern, it was still warm, and there were signs that a family lived there. A small basket in the corner held toys and bright colorful floor pillows were stacked next to it. Several family photos also hung on the opposite wall. He moved closer and noticed that several smaller photos were arranged artfully around a bigger painting—a soft, tender painting of a baby girl, looking up with wide blue eyes.

He knew without a doubt that Neal had painted it, and his heart clenched, sad that they hadn’t been there to celebrate with him. 

There were a couple of family portraits, and the rest were of Madeline at various ages. The little girl had a mop of curly auburn hair that obviously took after Sara, but had Neal’s sparkling blue eyes and a bright big grin. 

He heard Jones’ voice waft down the hallway, and he stepped back from the wall quickly as Jones followed Sara into the room.

“I, uh…” he glanced between them and the painting. “She’s beautiful.”

And Peter saw something he’d never seen before—a flash of pride and love filled Sara’s face. It was such a change from the baton wielding woman he’d known so many years ago. There was a softness to her that Peter knew could only come from having a child. But he knew the strong-willed and fearless woman was still in there, and probably only intensified now that she had children to protect.

“Thank you,” she said quietly, and rested a hand on her belly.

“Congratulations,” he added, waving a hand towards her then dropped it to his side awkwardly. “You’re, uh, going to have your hands full if he’s anything like Neal.”

She laughed lightly and smiled. “I know. But, hey, you told me to get a life, right?”

He felt his face turn red and he coughed into his hand. “Um, right… well I have to admit I didn’t see you settling down with Neal when I said that. I was more afraid that you’d tase him.”

Sara threw back her head and laughed, her eyes shining. Peter had to admit, he’d missed her too, missed the fierce determination and sharp wit of the woman who’d kept Neal on his toes.

“Neither did I, nor Neal for that matter. But things change. You never know where life is going to take you.”

Peter sobered up at that, and he frowned. “No… no you don’t.”

She seemed to know what he was thinking and gave him a gentle smile. “He’s happy, Peter. I know it was probably a shock for you, but he’s accepted it.” Pausing, she seemed to consider her next words. “There are still days when he has a hard time, usually if it involves Madeline, but he knows that he’s lucky and doesn’t complain.”

Honestly, Peter couldn’t imagine everything that Neal had gone through, and it was even harder to picture the suave, carefree man he’d known for years battling to do the simplest things.

“I’m glad you were there for him,” he said quietly.

A flash of indignation crossed her face, and she bristled, crossing her arms over her stomach. “I wasn’t going to leave him, Peter.” Her eyes flared briefly, but then she took a deep breath, and visibly tried to restrain herself. 

“It was tough in the beginning, for both of us, but there was no question of letting him go through this alone.” She paused, looked him straight in the eye and lowered her voice. “Everyone might have just seen Neal as a conman, a thief only interested in the next big score and keeping himself out of prison. I admit it took some time for me to get past it too, but Peter, you know as well as I do, that Neal is a lot more than that. He didn’t deserve any of this.”

Peter exhaled slowly and shook his head. “No, he didn't. And neither did you. I'm really sorry.”

“We can’t do anything about it now, Peter, except move on.” Sara sighed and dropped her arms to her side. “And we’ve worked hard at that.” 

Peter’s shoulders slumped, and he felt the exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours catch up with him. And yet, it had probably been ten times worse for Neal and Sara. “I know.”

They stared at each other for a moment in silence, before she gave him a short nod. “I’ll go get Neal,” she said, and turned towards double glass doors just across the hallway. She knocked softly, and then walked in without waiting for a response.

A minute later Sara emerged, and closed the door behind her quietly. “He’ll be out in a few minutes. I’m going to bed.” She paused, and said more softly, “It was nice seeing you again, Peter.”

“You too, Sara.” He wondered if he should say goodbye or not. He hoped to come back tomorrow, but she didn’t know that. “I wish it’d been under better circumstances, but I’m not sorry it happened.”

She leaned against the closed door and glanced back at the office with a sad smile. “Once we were back in the States, it was hard for him not to reach out to you. Would you believe Neal Caffrey was tired of running? He might have moved to London, but to him, that was his way of retiring. And he wanted to thank you for giving him that opportunity. He wouldn't have made it this far if you hadn't believed in him.”

Peter swallowed hard, and thought back to all the times he’d looked the other way, all of the second chances he’d given Neal. “I always told him he could be more than a con. I knew he had it in him.”

“It's not that easy. He had to have a reason, _more_ than just staying out of prison. Neal needed to see that it was worth it, _and_ have the support of people around him to show him that he was doing the right thing. If you hadn't trusted him, been a friend, then he would have gone right back to his old ways. We both know that he and Mozzie could have just disappeared after the anklet came off.”

Peter rolled his eyes. The little guy had been both help and hindrance over the years. It had been a constant tug of war with him over Neal. He was just thankful that in the end, Neal had chosen the life for _himself_. Although it meant that he’d left both his friends, he’d gone after what would make him happy.

“We all wanted what was best for Neal.”

Sara's eyes softened. “We did, but Neal had to come to that conclusion, and without your help, I'm not sure that ever would have happened.” She pursed her lips. “He was doing well in London, but we'll never know if something would have tempted him one day. Now...” she stopped and took a deep breath. 

“One good thing came from the accident—it gave Neal a fresh start. He doesn't look back anymore, and no one wonders if he ever will. He doesn't have his past hanging over his head anymore, and that is more important than you realize.”

He blanched and ran a hand over his face. “I...” he snapped his mouth closed. What did he say to that? How long had he held Neal's criminal past over him? How many times had Peter joked about sending him back to prison or reminded him that he was a criminal?

“It's okay, Peter.” She smiled at him knowingly. “Really. Yes, he tested all of our patience over the years, and he’s aware of that. Neal knows he wasn’t a model citizen and he made mistakes, but he wants to put all of that in his past.”

But it wasn't okay, Peter thought to himself. Although they’d eventually patched things up after the Hagen debacle, he had never really apologized. Every day Peter had held his breath and waited for Neal to mess up again. He'd been afraid, because he knew he would have to arrest his friend the next time something happened.

When he’d finally taken the anklet off for the last time, Peter had been so relieved that he hadn’t let himself fully appreciate what Neal had accomplished. Oh, he’d been happy for him, but that hadn’t changed the fact that he had assumed the worst of Neal. That mistrust had damaged their friendship.

Peter wondered if that was why he never heard from Neal after he left New York. Had Neal been hurt or had he been trying to prove something?

The door opened at that moment and Neal wheeled out. Sara shared a smile with him and then nodded at Peter and Jones. “Good night.”

“Good night,” they echoed and Jones stepped aside as she passed them. Peter exhaled slowly and tried to relax. He would hopefully talk with Neal later, and maybe they could finally clear the air. It was long overdue, and this time, Peter would apologize.


	5. Chapter 5

Neal wheeled out from the office. He stopped in front of them and looked up, hands resting on his wheels. “Sorry about that. I was finishing a chapter of my thesis. I’m trying to get it done before the baby comes.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “Neal Caffrey—graduate student. Now, that’s something I never saw coming.”

“And you’re going to have one up on Peter. He doesn’t have a master’s degree,” Jones added. He crossed his arms over chest and rocked back on his heels, smirking.

Neal grinned and Peter rolled his eyes. “Did you have to bring _that_ up?”

Jones shrugged and chuckled. “Hey, you gotta give the guy some credit. And he’s doing it while raising a kid. That takes dedication.”

“Oh, sure, let’s rub it in.”

“It’s not like you haven’t accomplished a lot Peter, we know that. It’s just…” Jones trailed off and waved a hand in the air.

Neal looked up with an innocent expression on his face. “It's not as impressive.”

Jones had to quickly smother his laugh quickly when Peter glared at him. He cocked his head. “But you did catch Neal.”

“Yeah… and it only took him three years,” Neal added with a smirk.

Peter threw up his hands and shook his head, exasperated.

Jones laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “We’re only messing with you. You’ve done good work, boss. Don’t forget that.”

Peter gave him a pointed look. “Yes… I clearly see where your loyalty lies, Jones.”

Neal laughed and turned, starting towards the kitchen. "Don't forget I'm the one cooking meals too," he added.

“And doing the laundry and cleaning the house, right?” Peter replied sarcastically.

Neal shook his head. “Nope. I leave that to Sara."

They followed Neal into the kitchen and Peter had to stop in his tracks. It was huge, at least twice the size of his own back in Brooklyn. With glossy gray cabinets, bright chrome handles, and a deep black granite countertop, it had the same soft contemporary feel as the living room. Splashes of varying blues kept it from being cold and stark. There was a large island in the middle, with a second sink, but what he noticed was the wide space underneath that was open for Neal to roll in. The main sink and stove were also open and the microwave was drawer style, situated just below the counter.

“Want anything to drink?” Neal asked, rolling over to the fridge. “I can’t offer you any beer or soda, but we have…” He opened it and stared inside, and looked up at them apologetically. “Juice? Sorry, we don’t have much. I can make some coffee if you’d like.”

“Coffee’s good,” Jones replied, then walked over to the breakfast nook and the kitchen table.

Neal looked up at Peter, who shrugged. “Sure.”

Peter watched as he closed the refrigerator, spun around quickly and opened a door on the other side of the kitchen that led to a large walk-in pantry. Neal disappeared into it momentarily, then came back out with a bag of coffee beans in his lap.

Realizing that he was staring, Peter joined Jones at the table, but he couldn’t help but watch as Neal sidled up next to the counter and set up the coffee grinder. It started with a loud whir while he leaned forward and pulled out a coffee filter from a lower cabinet. He made it look effortless as he moved around, even as he had to pull the coffee maker forward on the counter. Reaching up, he opened an upper cabinet and again, Peter was surprised when an entire shelf came out and lowered within Neal’s reach. He pulled out three mugs and pushed it back up.

Several minutes later when the coffee had finished brewing and Neal had divvied it up between the mugs, Peter and Jones wordlessly got up. He had to pause, wondering if he should offer to take Neal’s mug, but before he could open his mouth, Neal tucked it between his legs and made his way to the table.

“I could give you the location of my storage unit, but Mozzie’s probably moved everything,” Neal said as he rolled into the empty space at the table and placed his mug down.

Peter sat down opposite him and grimaced slightly. “Yeah, that’s likely.” He hesitated. “Mozzie left New York shortly after your death. Said his goodbyes to Elizabeth. That’s the last we heard of him.”

Neal took a sip of his coffee and smiled sadly. “He won’t be far though. For what it’s worth, Mozzie is sentimental and he loved New York as much as the next person. Plus, he had lots of contacts there. Did he leave any way to get in touch? Maybe with Elizabeth?”

Sighing, Peter shrugged his shoulders. “Not that I’m aware of. The last time his name even came up was a couple years ago when El found a book he’d lent her.”

“What about Diana?” Neal asked, glancing between them. “He wouldn’t want to leave Theo.”

Peter shook his head. “She hasn’t said anything either. I think he sends gifts, but beyond that, no one’s seen him since.”

“Can you remember any phone numbers or email addresses that he might still use?” Jones asked.

Letting out a laugh, Neal leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Mozzie changes phone numbers at least once a week. There’s no way he’s kept any of them or uses the same email account. Besides, how exactly would you explain how you found them? Same goes with any of his safe houses.”

It suddenly occurred to Peter that Neal had no intention of letting their appearance change anything. He had hoped to convince him to keep some form of contact, but this Neal was different. He didn’t live in the gray areas anymore. Peter didn’t know if that surprised him more than everything else.

The world in which Neal Caffrey lived by the rules was one Peter had once longed for, but had given up on after knowing the man for so long. Neal had a good heart and the right intentions, but he never wanted to do things by the book. It’s what made him so infuriating, yet so good at what he did. Over the past few years, he’d wished his agents could think like Neal more times than he could count. Not to do anything illegal per se, but sometimes it took thinking like a criminal to take one down.

Peter shared a look with Jones, and he knew that the younger agent was thinking the same thing. He glanced back at Neal. “You’re not going to let him know you’re alive, are you?”

Neal shook his head. “No. I can’t let anyone know, _especially_ Mozzie. It doesn’t matter how careful he is, someone in the criminal world will pick up on something and news will spread.”

It was that moment that Peter realized what Neal had sacrificed for his family. Peter understood the risk, he really did, more than anyone else. He would do anything to protect his wife, and had felt so much anger and loss of control when she’d been kidnapped. Afterwards, he’d wanted to hide her away, wrap her up and keep her safe from the life he led. Having witnessed the reach of Pratt and so many other criminals over the years, he also knew that Neal was right. But that didn’t make it hurt any less. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he’d said goodbye to his friend for the final time.

Maybe he was being selfish. He wanted his friend back, in some small way at least.

“I get that, but it’s been five years, Neal.” Peter replied, leaning in. “Gregory was arrested. Even if they couldn’t pin your accident on him, he’s in prison for theft. Maybe not forever, but even a few years is better than nothing. Loyalties change. His people will have moved on and he’ll have a hard time rebuilding his network.” 

Neal’s eyes flashed, and his jaw clenched. “If only that were true, Peter. Gregory didn’t go to prison. His lawyers got him off on a technicality. He walked.”

Peter gaped openly, and watched Neal calmly take a sip of coffee. He felt the stirrings of anger build up in him, as he realized that everything Neal had gone through had been for nothing. That wasn’t right.

“ _What?_ ” He gripped his mug tightly, afraid of what he’d do otherwise. He couldn’t think, couldn’t accept this latest revelation. Nothing seemed right anymore.

“Was it because you weren’t there to testify?”

Neal grimaced and shook his head. “No, I recorded a deposition before the accident. They were planning on using that anyway. Reena told me that it was still used at his trial.”

Peter relaxed slightly, but his mind still worked through it all, trying to understand what could have gone wrong. He didn’t have the case file in front of him, but if Neal had worked with Interpol, wouldn’t they have been prepared for every contingency? No one wanted to watch the bad guy walk on a technicality. That’s why he’d always imparted on Neal why it was so important to do things by the book, to plan carefully.

He stopped when Neal’s words caught up with him.

“Reena?”

“Sara’s friend at Interpol. She’s the one I went to with the information about Gregory, and she worked with the Metropolitan Police to arrest him with the Matisse. It was her idea to place us in Witness Protection,” he explained.

The name sounded familiar, and Peter paused, trying to remember where he’d heard it. “Wait a minute… was she the one who ID’d your bodies?”

Neal nodded. “Yes, well, officially. But there were no bodies, obviously.”

“I remember her,” Jones spoke up. “Not many people were at the funeral for Sara, mostly her colleagues from Sterling Bosch. She was one of them.” 

“Right.” Peter glanced over at Jones. “Wasn’t she the one who offered to pack up Neal’s things?” 

“Yeah, until Diana said she’d do it.” Jones shrugged, and Peter remembered the shock at Diana’s insistence. She’d come back after a few days in London, quiet and reserved. She’d handed him a framed photo of the team on Neal’s last day at the office. To this day, it sat on his desk.

Peter cleared his throat. They needed to get back on track—they didn’t have all night and he’d rather not get lost in the memories. “Right, so we need to contact Mozzie, but leave out the fact that we pinned the forgery on him because of Neal.”

“Are you sure you never signed any of them, Neal?” Jones asked, pulling out the case file from his bag.

“I’m _sure_ ,” he replied firmly. “Just tell him that you remembered seeing them in my apartment.”

Peter nodded. “That’ll work. But we still need to find him, and he’s not an easy man to get ahold of.”

“Ask Sally.”

Jones’ eyebrows shot up. “You mean the Vulture? Are they still in contact?”

Neal chuckled. “He parted ways with her, but she’s a useful person to know. I doubt that she couldn’t track him down or get a message to him, even if he hasn’t contacted her.”

“How do we contact her?” Jones glanced between them. “I don’t think she’s going to be any easier to find than Mozzie.”

Peter cocked his head to the side and looked curiously at Neal. “He used IRC to find her the first time. I’m sure she still frequents those chat rooms.”

Neal smiled knowingly and shrugged. “It’s worth a try.”

Slapping a hand on the table, Peter grinned. God, he missed working with Neal. He hadn't realized how much until now. “Good, this is good. Let's see if we can track her down.”

Jones pulled out his laptop and a few minutes later had a few select chat rooms open. But Neal just shook his head and gestured to take over.

“Sally's not going to be there. She knows the Feds watch those. I think I remember some that Mozzie visited.”

Pushing the laptop over, Jones watched as Neal opened up a couple of windows and skimmed the chatter. Peter caught Jones' eye. Jones shrugged and kept an eye on the screen. 

After a minute, Neal nodded. “This one should work. She probably has crawlers that will notify her of anything, or someone who will reach out to her.”

Getting up from the table, Peter walked around Neal. “Okay, let's draw her out.”

Neal turned slightly to look up at him. “No offense, Peter, but anything you guys say will scream Fed. It's better that I do it.”

Peter placed his hands on his hips and frowned. “I've gone undercover before, Neal. I think I can manage an online forum. Besides, she needs to know it's us.”

“And let other people know she'll help the feds? That's one quick way to get on her bad side. Besides, your idea of stealth is probably a bad pun about carrion luggage.”

If he wasn’t staring down at Neal sitting in a wheelchair, he could have imagined it was just another night at home, brainstorming, and having his friend band up with his wife to laugh at him. He narrowed his eyes. “What's wrong with that?”

Neal raised an eyebrow and glanced at Jones. The younger agent smirked and shrugged, giving Peter an apologetic look. “He's right, boss.”

Peter sighed, giving in and waved a hand towards the laptop. “Fine, go for it.”

After a moment of consideration, Neal started typing.

 _In the greyness_  
_and drizzle of one despondent_  
_dawn unstirred by harbingers_  
_of sunbreak a vulture_  
_perching high on broken_  
_bone of a dead tree_  
_nestled close to his_  
_mate_

“That's it? A poem about a vulture?” Peter would have thought Neal would have been more subtle, for all his talk.

“The poem also talks about the strangeness of love. She'll get it.”

“Oh, it was strange alright,” Jones remarked and shuddered slightly.

Peter couldn't help but agree, vividly remembering the phone call where they’d realized Mozzie was with Sally. They made for an odd couple, but then again, he’d never been able to picture anyone with the eccentric conman before. The idea of a female Mozzie out there was downright disturbing, so at least Sally seemed halfway normal.

Before he could contemplate the frightening possibility of what kind of child Mozzie and Sally would produce, a reply flashed on the screen.

 _Strange_  
_indeed how love in other_  
_ways so particular_  
_will pick a corner_  
_in that charnel-house_  
_tidy it and coil up there, perhaps_  
_even fall asleep - her face_  
_turned to the wall!_

“Is that supposed to be mean she’s willing to talk or not?” Jones asked, staring at the screen looking puzzled.

Peter read it a second time and felt as confused as Jones. “It’s not very reassuring.”

Neal chuckled. “You don’t want to hear the rest of the poem, trust me. We got her attention, that’s all that matters.”

He quickly typed his response.

_Need help finding an old teddy bear._

“She knows his real name?” Peter asked surprised, then mentally slapped himself. Of course Sally knew his real name. It would be more surprising if she didn’t.

“Even if she doesn’t, she’ll understand the message.”

“But does she know it’s us?” he asked, suddenly unsure of reaching out to a hacker. Sure, she had helped them when it helped her clear her name, but now? When they needed her to find someone, a fellow criminal, without giving her any reassurance that they weren’t out to hurt him?

“She knows.” Jones nodded to the computer.

Peter glanced over. A new window had popped up on the screen—a private chat room.

_What do you need from him?_

Moving in between Jones and Neal, he sat down and took over the laptop. “My turn. This needs to sound like me.”

_We just need to talk to him. Off the record._

Neal raised an eyebrow. “Well, needless to say, she knows it’s you now.”

A moment later the screen flashed that she had left the room.

“I guess that’s it.” Neal shrugged. “Either she or Mozzie will probably contact you.”

Peter groaned. “Why does it surprise me that I don’t even have to give a point of contact anymore? It’s as if my life is an open door these days.”

Jones chuckled and clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, boss, I’ll protect you from the little guy.” He turned to Neal. “Where can I find the restroom?”

Twisting in his chair, Neal pointed to the hallway. “Walk back towards the front door, but keep going and it’s the first door on your left.”

“Thanks.” He looked pointedly at Peter and left the room.

Sighing, Peter ran a hand over his face. He knew Jones was giving him the chance to talk to Neal. It was appreciated, but he wasn’t ready. However, there wasn’t much more for them to do, and it was now or never.

He took a deep breath. “We need to talk.”

Neal nodded slowly. “Okay…”

Peter shook his head. “No, just the two of us. I was hoping tomorrow night.” He held up a hand, ready to forestall Neal’s arguments before he could lay them out. “But if you don’t want to risk it, I completely understand, I just thought we needed to talk, and I mean _really_ talk. Neal, it’s been five years, and-”

“It’s fine.”

Peter stopped short and Neal smirked.

“Are you sure?”

Neal laughed and nodded. “Yes, I’m sure, Peter. It’s not like the Marshals are keeping surveillance on me. Am I worried? Yes. But Erin, the Marshal assigned to us, already stopped by this morning, and she doesn’t suspect anything.”

Peter blinked. He hadn’t expected that. “Really?”

“Yes. I don’t think she even knows that agents from New York are here. She was more worried about me being recognized in general. I assured her that the FBI had long forgotten me.”

Forgetting Neal Caffrey was impossible, Peter knew without a doubt. Five years later, and he still thought of him often—at work, at home, whenever he visited a museum. Time couldn’t erase him from Peter’s life. And honestly, Peter didn’t want it to.

He leaned back in his chair, smiling, knowing his next words would just play into Neal’s hands, but for once, Peter didn’t mind. He could only revel in the familiarity for now. It felt good.

“I wouldn’t say everyone has forgotten you. Diana put your Socrates bust on her desk. Jones laid claim to your rubber band ball. Oh, and the first time Jones sent Blake undercover, he insisted on wearing a hat. You should have seen him—he was dressed _exactly_ like you.”

Neal beamed like a proud peacock. “Well, the classics never go out of style.”

Peter snorted. “You made it work, but Blake looked like a kid dressing up for Halloween.”

He wasn’t going to admit that it had been painful to see Blake spin the hat and tilt it just so on his head. Even Jones had looked away. Thankfully a female agent, a close friend of Blake’s, had told him that he couldn’t pull it off. Blake had looked hurt, but accepted it. Peter had just sighed in relief. There could be only one Neal Caffrey.

Jones walked back in the room just then, and Peter sat up straight. He picked up his mug and drained the last dregs of coffee. They still had work to do.

“Alright Neal, so I gotta know…” Jones smirked and Neal looked up, a grin still plastered across his face. “You’re a student and a dad now. Please tell me you're not wearing a three piece suit to college. You'd be putting everyone else to shame.”

Neal threw back his head and laughed. Peter rolled his eyes, but chuckled softly too. The fancy suits and debonair air might have been part of the image that Neal had maintained, to gather the confidence and respect of those around him, but in the end, the suit hadn’t made the man. Neal was… Neal. You just couldn’t help but like him. Even when he annoyed you to no end, and especially when he flaunted those hats. 

“Funny you should ask…” he paused and winked at Peter. “I may not wear Devore anymore, but I have a decent tie collection. I picked up a tie bar the other day. And I’m planning on the casual vest look once I start teaching. I have it on good authority that the ladies like it.”

Peter groaned. Of course. Always a ladies’ man.

*~*~*~*

The funny thing, Neal thought after Peter and Jones left, was that he knew of a million ways to reach Mozzie. They had all sorts of protocol in place, beyond the burner phones and email addresses. Some of them had been… rather out of the ordinary. Although, as he'd told them, it was likely true that Mozzie wouldn't be using them anymore.

He'd been tempted to look into them after the accident, just to see if Mozzie believed that he was dead. If Mozzie was looking for him, then there could be trouble. He’d hoped that with radio silence, Moz would accept his death. However, his friend was paranoid and distrustful, so he knew that short of seeing Neal's body, Mozzie would probably always wonder. Only with time would he give up on finding Neal.

It pained him to think that his friend might still be holding out hope that he was alive. Moz probably figured he'd gone off the grid, possibly due to Sara's death, or for some other fanciful or conspiracy driven reason. He doubted that Witness Protection would enter Mozzie’s mind, not with Neal's history and his own disdain for all things government. 

Jones hadn't been too far off, though, with his theory that Mozzie could be using the paintings to draw him out. It relied on the assumption that Neal had stayed in the business or at least kept an ear in the art world. Otherwise, as recent events had gone to show, Neal would be oblivious. There weren't any obvious downsides to the move, unless you knew the truth. And despite how paranoid Moz was, Neal didn't think he would realize that he was risking Neal's security and anonymity by bringing his name back into the criminal world. 

He just wanted his friend back.

Neal could understand that. It hadn't been hard the first few months in London, too engrossed in his new life, and enjoying the simple pleasures of being a free man. Talking to Mozzie then would have distracted him, or worse, tempted him in ways he hadn't been ready to resist, not so soon after the anklet had come off. He'd been trying to prove to himself and to Sara—and Peter, if he was being honest—that he could go straight.

It was months later, after they moved to Colorado, when he had yet to start school and was going stir crazy that he'd wanted those nights where they just sat and talked for hours on end (while drinking all of his wine, of course.) He didn’t need the thrill of the heist anymore, just the mental exercise and the challenge of figuring out the impossible. 

And the company of a friend.

But for the first time in his life, he’d played by the rules. Despite all temptation, he hadn’t contacted Peter or looked up Mozzie in any of the number of ways he knew how. In time, once the eyes of Gregory were off his friends, it probably would have been safe, but Neal knew it would just be more painful. For him and for them. 

He was done running. He wasn’t going to mess it up all over again. Neal had been given enough second chances to know that he should never take them for granted. The next one might be his last.

Five years later, the temptation was still strong to connect with his old life, to talk to his friends, but his love for his family was stronger.

Moz would just have to accept that his friend was gone.

*~*~*~*

_“Regenerate-what??” Neal looked at the older con man, baffled. He’d heard some crazy things from his friend before, but he couldn’t quite make sense of this one._

_Mozzie sighed and removed his glasses, cleaning them with a handkerchief. “Regeneration sickness. When the Doctor regenerates into a new body—oh, never mind, you’ve never watched the show obviously. Which you should, it’s a cult classic, and no matter what anyone says about the new series, the old series, specifically the Fourth Doctor was the best. I don’t care that the special effects were laughable, it was a children’s show and it scared them.”_

_Neal raised an eyebrow at this. He wanted to know if Mozzie had been such a child, but he knew better than to bring up his childhood._

_“And what does this have to do with emergency contact protocols?”_

_Rolling his eyes, Mozzie took a sip of his wine—a bottle of Jasper Hill that was actually filled with a $6 shiraz that Neal had picked up at the grocery store because it had a kangaroo on the label – it was fitting, considering the way they jumped and flitted through life. Mozzie expected him to live the good life, but he wasn’t the one buying the wine. So Neal figured what Mozzie didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, unless of course he was just humoring Neal. In that case, he might fill up the next bottle with box wine._

_“We need some way to contact each other in case you have to fake your death. Ergo—regeneration. Just post a message on Outpost Gallifrey, it’s a huge forum so no one will notice a new thread. If you’re hurt, mention regeneration sickness. If you need a safehouse, then say you lost your key to the Tardis.”_

_Neal just stared at him incredulously._

_Mozzie ignored him or didn’t notice, too engrossed in his paranoid ramblings. “…but if you just need to lay low, say you’re off to Chloris. I’ll get the point. Unless of course, you need my help, then mention that you lost your companion on Biblios.”_

_“What’s wrong with all the others? Like the carrier pigeons or the dating sites?” he asked, even though he much preferred a generic message posted on a forum. He was too scared to look up Mozzie’s online dating profile._

_“They’re not always available, and besides you never know when the feds will burn them,” he grimaced and took a long drink. “This one’s never been used—it’s an emergency beacon, so to speak.”_

_Shaking his head, Neal leaned back in his chair. He knew when to humor his friend, and honestly this wasn’t the craziest idea the man had come up with. Granted, the way he spouted off trivia on fictional planets was a little frightening._

_Mozzie put down his glass and crossed his arms. “Now, we need to talk about how best to fake your death. As exciting as your death by shark in Monterey Bay was, we need to come up with a more believable scenario.”_

_Neal couldn't help but beam at the mention of that particular stunt. It had been fun, if a little exhausting. “Hey, everyone likes a good shark mauling.”_

_“On TV, sure, but no one really bought it for very long. The suit was on your tail a month later.”_

_He shrugged and picked up the cork, rolling it between his fingers. “I was able to steal the Faberge egg, wasn't I? It was worth it.”_

_“Yes, well, we need to work on something that will hold up to scrutiny.” He held up a finger, and quoted, “'Success depends upon previous preparation, and without such preparation there is sure to be failure.'“_

_At Neal's blank stare, Mozzie sighed. “Confucius. You really need to read more.”_

_“I read plenty. Not everyone is a bibliophile.”_

_Mozzie huffed. “Fine, but don't think you're off the hook. We'll return to your literary deficiencies later. So the one thing you got right in Monterey Bay—do it publicly. There **must** be some independent verification, otherwise the Suit won't have any reason to believe a death certificate. If you can't stage your death yourself, then you at least need to be in the area. Be caught on a few cameras.”_

_“Stage it...myself,” he replied slowly. “It was one thing to disappear into water, and the keyword there is **disappear** —I’d rather not get shot, or whatever else you have in mind.”_

_The older man shrugged a shoulder, seemingly unperturbed by the idea. “It doesn’t have to be that drastic. Just… walk in front of a car.”_

_Neal gave his friend a pointed look. “Moz, I’d rather not end up in the hospital. The point is to **fake** my death, not precipitate it.”_

_“And if you want the Suit off your back, then you need to make it believable. Learning to fall intentionally is a handy skill, just so you know. Also, there needs to be careful consideration of the timing. If the Suit is hot on your heels or if it’s right before a big heist, then they'll doubt that it was real.”_

_“It is hard to believe I would just walk in front of a car, Moz,” he said, exasperated._

_“Well, of course!”_

_Neal winced at Mozzie’s sharp tone and watched as the man’s hands started waving around wildly._

_“But if you’re **hit** by a car while you’re casually walking across the street, then it looks like an accident. Driver leaves the scene, you walk off, and are ‘found,’” Mozzie finger quoted, “dead later of internal bleeding. Pay off the coroner and one George Danvary or whoever you have to burn, is dead.”_

_“You know, getting mauled by the shark wasn’t as painful,” he remarked lightly. All he’d had to do was swim off after letting go of some dye packs in the water. Arranging for his ‘body’ to be washed up on the beach later hadn’t been fun, but at least he didn’t have to get hit by a car doing so._

_Mozzie muttered something unintelligible and took a deep breath. “It is not death or pain that is to be dreaded, but the fear of pain or death.” He paused and then pointedly added, “Epictetus.”_

_“The aim of the wise is not to secure pleasure, but to avoid pain. Aristotle,” Neal countered and grinned when Mozzie scowled. “See? I read.”_

_“Fine, then come up with your own painless death. Just remember to have some visual proof. Without a body, the Suit won’t give up until he’s sure you’re really and truly dead.”_

_Neal leaned forward and rested his chin on his hand. “I wonder if he'd come to my funeral.”_

_“You are getting way too close to the Suit, mon frère.” Mozzie shook his head and raised his glass of wine. “What you should be worrying about is the fact that he's getting close. You have to stop playing games. He **will** catch you if you're not too careful.”_

_Sighing, Neal slumped back in his seat. He wasn't stupid. He knew he was playing with fire, but it was too much fun to taunt the FBI agent. Besides, he respected the man. Burke was a straight-laced agent. If the time ever came, Neal didn't worry that somehow he'd 'accidentally' find a bullet in his back or have his head smashed into the ground._

_Unconsciously he rubbed his chest and his eyes flicked back to his friend. “You'd come to my funeral, right?”_

_Mozzie frowned. “Are the feds there?”_

_Neal shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe. It depends—would you ID my body and steal it away before they find me?”_

_Letting out a long-suffering sigh, Mozzie replied, “For you, I'll brave the morgue.” He pointed a finger at him. “ **Only** to make sure it's really you, and so the suits don't get their hands on you.”_

_Nodding, Neal pondered this. It was a little morbid thinking about his death, but he supposed he should be prepared, especially in his line of work. “I want to be cremated. Spread my ashes in the Mediterranean. Or maybe the Maldives.” He paused and frowned. “I'll need to think on that.”_

_“I want to be mummified,” Mozzie said without pause._

_Neal blinked. He really shouldn't be surprised anymore, but yet he still was..._

_“I don’t want to rot in the ground and be ravaged by bugs,” he stated calmly, taking a big gulp of his wine._

_“You just want to be buried with your riches, don't you?”_

_Mozzie beamed and made no effort to look ashamed. “Maybe.”_

_“There's one problem with that,” he said and Mozzie raised an eyebrow. “No one **knows** where you hide it all. And I don't see you leaving a will.”_

_The older con shrugged lightly and sipped his wine. “Yes, well... details. I'll let you know when the time comes.”_

_“Right..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem, _Vultures_ , is by Chinua Achebe. Oh, and were you expecting a Peter & Neal talk? *cackles* It's coming, I promise!


	6. Chapter 6

“Purple.”

Neal handed over a purple crayon, but only got an exasperated look from his daughter.

“Not that one!”

He raised an eyebrow and when she pouted, he chuckled. “Which one then?”

She pointed to a very specific one amongst the pile of crayons, just out of her reach. “That one!”

“Ahhh… you mean,” he picked up the pink-ish purple crayon that had earned his daughter’s attention and read the label, “vivid violet. Excellent choice.”

Madeline beamed and started drawing in Eeyore’s ears on her paper very carefully, her tongue sticking out as she concentrated.

The doorbell rang, but Neal didn’t move from his position on the floor, instead watching as his daughter looked up at the television screen where a scene from Winnie the Pooh was frozen and back down to her drawing. She was trying really hard to match the image on the screen. Tigger had already been drawn after much deliberation as to the right shade of orange. 

What was on the paper wasn’t so much the familiar characters as it was colored blobs and scribbles. But he'd been told she was already ahead of other kids her age.

"Don't forget Eeyore's bow," he said, pointing to the tail. 

“Helping her with her first forgery are we, Neal?”

Neal looked up and grinned. “It’s not forgery if she signs her name, and trust me, she tries to leave her mark on everything."

Peter rolled his eyes, but smiled all the same.

He turned back to his daughter. “Madeline, I want you to meet a friend of mine. Say hello to Peter.”

She looked up briefly, and caught sight of Peter. “Hello.” Her head was down two seconds later, her attention back on her drawing and Neal shook his head. Every day, he saw more and more of himself in her, including his love of drawing, but unfortunately also his stubbornness. Seeing as both he and Sara never backed down from a fight, it was inevitable.

“I’m going to be in the kitchen. Come show us when you’re done, okay?”

“Okay,” she answered, without looking up.

He glanced back up at Peter and shrugged as if to say, _‘What can you do?’_ Shifting to his side, he rolled onto his back, and pushed up into a sitting position. He moved the floor pillow out of the way and reached over, pulling his chair closer and locked the brakes. With a well-practiced move, he pushed up from the floor, grabbed the edge of the chair and swung himself up and into it.

Neal could feel Peter’s eyes on him and knew seeing him out of the chair was probably harder than seeing him in it. But he liked to interact with his daughter on her level, and let her have as normal a life as she could, even though they all had to adjust and adapt to his disability. She was young though, and didn’t seem to be bothered by it so far. It would probably be harder once she grew up.

He led the way into the kitchen and moved toward the stove. “I'm going to finish getting dinner ready. Feel free to get something to drink if you're interested.” He pointed up towards a cabinet. “Glasses are up there.”

Pulling out the pasta pot from its drawer, he placed it on the back of the cooktop and reached over to the faucet on the back wall, extending the arm so it lined up over the pot. He flipped the lever at the base of the faucet and it started filling the pot with water.

“That sure looks handy to have.”

Neal looked over his shoulder to Peter, and grinned. "It's one of the best features of this kitchen. I love it." Glancing back he looked into the mirror situated at an angle above the potfiller and watched the water line. A couple minutes later he switched it off and moved the pot to the burner.

“I never thought about that, I guess,” Peter admitted. “I never thought about a lot of this,” he said, waving a hand around the kitchen with all its adaptations.

“You normally don't. But trust me, every little thing makes it easier. You stop thinking about it after awhile.” He pulled the pot's lid out the drawer, placed it onto the pot and flipped the burner on. “It's really why we built the house. I had an accident in the kitchen in our first apartment, and after a trip to the hospital, Sara decided then and there that we needed a bigger place that was easier for me to get around.”

Peter looked a little pained and uncomfortable to hear about this. “What happened?”

Neal shrugged. “Just spilled some water, it wasn't that bad. All the same, if you wouldn’t mind draining it for me later, I’d appreciate it.”

“Sure, sure.” Peter still appeared troubled though, and Neal knew it would take him a while to accept that he was in a wheelchair and had to do things differently. But his friend’s distress had more to do with the fact that he hadn’t been there to help out.

He picked up the spoon resting on the counter and stirred the spaghetti sauce that was simmering on another burner, then turned back to face Peter.

“I'm okay, Peter, really. Do I look unhappy, angry… or depressed?” Peter shook his head silently and Neal sighed. He pushed away from the stove. “Look, I’ll admit it’s not an easy life, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, but it’s not like I had a choice. I had to accept it.”

He looked away, staring at the expanse of the kitchen, and feeling the cool metal of his wheels under his hands. It was a different life, and sometimes it was difficult for people to understand that he could still be happy. Glancing back, he gave Peter a tired smile.

“I know it’s a shock for you. It was hard for Sara too, and she had a lot more to deal with—she was injured and had to uproot her life at the same time. But we got through it. The psychologists told me that everyone has to find a way to grieve and move on—it’s not just about me.”

Neal paused and looked Peter in the eye. “And something tells me you’ve grieved enough.” He watched as pain flickered across Peter’s face, but disappeared a moment later. It was familiar, the need to move on and bury the grief, but it never really went away, just dulled to a point where you could almost forget—until something reminded you. It didn't matter that Peter knew the truth now. The grief, the memory of that time would always be there.

Peter said nothing and his head tilted just slightly in acknowledgment.

“It could have been worse—I could really be dead,” he offered. He had meant to lighten things up, but quickly sobered at the glare Peter shot him. It didn’t matter that it was the truth. He very nearly died, or he could have been injured worse. However, he also knew that he had been the lucky one—he’d known the truth.

They both had gone through their own grief, but for Neal the pain of losing everyone had been tempered by the knowledge that they were all safe. Peter hadn’t had that luxury.

He didn’t want to imagine how he would have felt if he had been in Peter’s shoes. He had lost too many people over the years, and losing Peter might have been the last straw. While cutting off contact with Peter had the same effect, Neal had at least known that he was alive.

And perhaps Peter's life was a little easier now that he wasn't worrying about Neal. It might be fatalistic of him, but it was the truth.

Peter sighed and leaned against the island, crossing his arms over his chest. "So, psychologists? As in plural? Don’t tell me you scared one off?"

Neal laughed and rocked his chair back. It was a change of topic, but he didn’t mind. “Not quite. I was a bit of mess at the beginning. And it was a little tricky, seeing as I couldn’t explain my past or the fact that I was about to enter WitSec. But she helped me a lot. So did the one with the US Marshals. Sara and I worked with her a lot when we moved here.”

“Sara seems good now. She always was pretty tough.”

“Yeah, she is,” Neal agreed, smiling softly. “But we had a rough spot. I felt guilty about forcing her into this life, and she… well, we both had our issues to work through, suffice it to say.”

“And I bet you two are even stronger now.”

“We are. I’m not sure what I would have done without her.”

Peter's face fell. “We've should have been there to help you, both of you. She shouldn't have been the only one to shoulder the burden.”

“Would you have stayed for four months? Would you have been there every day while I learned to roll over and sit up like a baby? Or how about while I learned how to bathe myself and pick myself up after I fell?” He rolled forward, and looked up at Peter with a hardened expression. “Peter, it wasn’t a pretty time—it was grueling and embarrassing, and I had to do it on my own. I had to learn to do everything all over again because I couldn’t, and never wanted to, rely on Sara or anyone else to take care of me. 

"Not to mention, I wasn’t always the best patient," he added lightly, the corners of his mouth turning up.

“I’m still sorry.”

Neal sighed. “I know you are, but if you let it, the guilt will eat you alive. I know it's only been a couple of days for you, but you'll go home, life will move on, and you won't even think about this anymore.”

"I think you know that’s pretty impossible. You're a pretty hard person to forget,” Peter said wryly, smiling.

Neal smirked. “I know. Reena told me about the eulogy you gave.”

He winced and scratched a hand over the back of his neck. “Yeah... about that...”

“Hey, you can't take it back just because I'm alive.” Neal grinned and then paused, as he remembered Reena returning to the hospital a week after his accident, when he was still flat on his back and trying not to spiral down into depression. “I needed to hear it. It helped me remember that I was doing it for the right reason.”

Peter nodded and gave him a small smile. “I'm glad. I meant all of it.”

Neal knew that Peter was probably uncomfortable talking about it, so he thought it best to move on. They couldn't fix everything in one night. There would always be guilt; only time would help Peter accept that. He rolled closer to the stove, opened the lid to the pasta pot and set it aside. Leaning over, he picked up the box of spaghetti from the counter to his left. Cracking it open, he dumped the pasta into the boiling water, replaced the lid, and went to the fridge where a timer hung on the side. He quickly set the timer, and looped the lanyard around his neck.

“Want any wine? I think you might need some right about now.”

Peter let out a breath, and smiled, looking happy to move on as well. “Sure, why not?”

Neal opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle, a now welcome occurrence since he didn’t have Mozzie emptying all of his wine on a daily basis. He nodded towards a cabinet above his head. “If you could grab the glasses, that’d be great.”

They moved to the kitchen table where Neal poured them each a small glass.

“How's Elizabeth?”

“She's good. Still splits her time between the DeArmitt gallery and Burke Premiere Events.” Peter took a sip. “Although she has her assistants handle most of it now. She's getting to that point where she just wants to come home and curl up with a book without worrying about bridezillas calling at all hours.”

Neal smiled wistfully. He did miss them—it was hard not to. “And you? Risen in the ranks? Or are you winding down now?”

Peter chuckled and shook his head. “No, I'm still ASAC. I like it. I'm still involved with the cases, but I'm home at six every night. I'm not sure I want to go any higher—that just means more bureaucracy. I don't know how long I'll keep at it, but for now I'm content. If Elizabeth wants to retire in another few years, I might consider it.”

“Peter Burke, workaholic—retired? I'm not sure I can picture that.”

“Neither can I, but it'll happen eventually. Besides, it's about time for Jones to step up. He deserves it.” He stopped and cocked his head to the side, looking over Neal's shoulder.

Neal knew exactly what had caught Peter's attention. Without turning around, he said, “Madeline, do you remember our rule?”

The little girl moved to the side and looked up shyly, swaying side to side. 

"We don't play around Daddy's chair, sweetie," he said calmly.

The rule actually encompassed a few things—not just playing with his chair, but not to stand or play behind him. It was a rule to keep her safe, and so he didn't have to worry every time he moved around.

She held up her drawing, and he softened. They didn't have many people over, so he knew she was nervous with Peter there. Taking the drawing, he smiled wide, and not just for her sake. He could see the talent starting to show, and he was proud of her. Even though she was only two and half years old, she was recognizing more colors and shapes than most kids.

“This looks wonderful, Madeline.” He scanned the drawing and noticed that she had indeed added the bow to Eeyore's tail, although it looked like a messy pink knot of scribbles.

"How about we work on Pooh and Piglet tomorrow?"

She thought about, it then nodded. “Okay.” He held out her drawing and she took it carefully, holding it between her small fingers like it was a delicate masterpiece.

Neal leaned in closer to her. “We can even use the paints if you want.”

Her bright blue eyes widened in excitement. “Really?”

He nodded, and smiled. Madeline had seen him work with paint, and always wanted to join him. They'd bought washable child paints, but he still preferred to have her use crayons. “Yes, really.” He kissed her forehead and brushed a hand over her head, sweeping back stray curls. “Why don’t you go show this to mommy and then wash up for dinner, okay?”

Grinning, she got up on her tip toes and leaned into him. Neal moved his head down, hugging her side as she kissed him softly on his cheek. Then she spun around without a word and ran out of the kitchen.

“You always were good with kids.”

Neal looked up and shrugged half-heartedly, but couldn’t help and smile softly. Talking to kids and doing magic tricks to entertain them was one thing, but raising one every day was a challenge. A challenge he had taken on without hesitation once he’d held Madeline in his arms for the first time. It still amazed him that she was his, that he had this life where a little girl looked at him like he was her hero. He wasn't Neal Caffrey, ex-con, or thief, to her. Just her father, and that meant the world to him.

“She makes it easy.” 

“You say that now,” Peter said, nodding and raised his glass with a knowing look. “I’ve heard about the terrible twos and threes.”

He laughed. “Yeah, we’ve seen a few flare ups, but so far she’s really good, listens to us when we tell her not to do something. That rule I mentioned? Well, that’s just one of several. We also get her to pick up her toys because I ran over one and broke it. She was devastated, but now she always picks up after herself.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, and set his glass down. “You did it on purpose didn’t you?”

“I don’t exactly have a backup camera, Peter,” he replied wryly and picked up his own glass.

Peter didn’t appear convinced. “No, but the Neal Caffrey I know does nothing by accident." He stared him down, and Neal almost squirmed. It'd been a while since he’d had a Peter Burke interrogation.

"... Neal?"

Neal sighed. Sometimes it was annoying how well Peter knew him. “It would have happened eventually. I can't tell you how many times I've nearly run over toys or crayons or tiny little hairclips.”

Peter's shoulders shook as he let out a laugh. He grinned and shook his head. “You _conned_ your own daughter.”

Neal’s eyes widened. “I did not!”

“Oh yes, you did.” Peter looked at him pointedly, the corners of his mouth curling up. “Doesn't matter what you call it. That, my friend, was a con, pure and simple.”

Neal rolled his eyes. “It was a teachable moment.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” Peter smirked and leaned back, taking a long drink of his wine.

“Ask any parent out there, and they'll tell you they've done it too. I make no apologies for it. You should see her room. It's spotless."

“Just wait until she grows up and realizes you conned her.”

The timer went off just then, saving Neal from having to defend himself further. Before he could quiet it, Peter had jumped out of his seat.

“I got it.”

Neal wheeled behind him into the kitchen. “Just lift the insert out—it has separate handles.” 

Turning off the burner, Peter removed the lid, picked up the insert and carefully shook it, letting the water drain back into the pot. “I know, Elizabeth has one of these pots too.” After a good thirty seconds, he placed it on a back burner and then carried the stock pot over to the sink.

“So the great Peter Burke can do more than make pot roast. I'm impressed.”

Peter looked over his shoulder as steam filled the air, and glared.

He laughed and turned to the freezer to grab some corn. “Yeah, some things don't change.”

*~*~*~*

_Neal breathed through his mouth slowly, and closed his eyes. It was good to be sitting up finally, but the small milestone was hardly anything to cheer. Not when moving just a few inches made him dizzy and light-headed. The first time they elevated his bed he’d nearly passed out. The next day he’d thrown up. Each time he sat up higher and for longer periods, but he didn’t feel like it was as much an accomplishment as a necessary evil. In less than a week he’d be heading to rehab. He’d have to learn how to do so much more than simply keep his head up._

_Hearing a soft knock, he opened his eyes, and gave Reena a small smile as she walked in._

_“Hey there. I see you’re almost vertical.” She pulled a chair up close to his bed. The sound of the legs scraping against the linoleum floor broke the silence of his self-imposed isolation. He'd long grown tired of the TV over the past couple of weeks, so it was on but muted, just to give him something to stare at besides the white walls._

_“Yeah, I was getting tired of impersonating the living dead," he replied dryly._

_"You'll be up and charming the ladies in no time," she said, smiling brightly, perhaps a tad too brightly, but Neal knew she was trying. Reaching into her coat pocket, she pulled out a small ring box. "Here you go."_

_She dropped it into his waiting hand. He held it carefully, remembering the last time he'd looked at it. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and while he hadn't been ready to pop the question then, he'd had a vision of a future. A future that seemed impossible now. But he'd asked Reena to grab it before Diana came to pack away his things._

_There was still a part of him that dreamed that it was possible. Maybe one day..._

_"It's beautiful."_

_Neal looked up. She nodded toward the small box in his hands._

_"She's going to love it."_

_He frowned and hesitated, running his fingers over the seam, but stopped short of opening it. "The ring's not what I'm worried about." He couldn't even look at it now, afraid that this was where it would end. That he'd never get the chance to propose, or worse, that she'd stay for the wrong reasons._

_Reena sighed and clasped her hands over her knee. "I've known Sara for a couple of years now, and while she usually keeps things close to her chest, when she came to me, it was plainly obvious that she was serious about you. She wouldn't have offered you the job or let you move in with her if she hadn't. She doesn't open up to people easily, but she let **you** in." She paused and smiled reassuringly at him. "I think that speaks for itself."_

_Neal nodded silently, and stared at the box in his hands. A few years ago he would have laughed at the idea of loving Sara Ellis, of wanting to spend his life with her. Everything Reena said about her was true. The Sara Ellis he'd met back then had been fierce, determined, and lonely. She'd opened up just a little on the rooftop of the FBI building, but not much. Not like she had later._

_"She loves you," Reena said softly. "She wouldn't be here otherwise. I know you're worried. Life is going to get... tough. But don't ever doubt her feelings, or motivation. I offered her the choice, told her that she didn't have to go into WitSec, or that she could go in by herself._

_"She's here because she wants to be here, Neal," she emphasized gently._

_He gave her a tired smile, but the uncertainty didn't go away. Things had changed so much. He wouldn't blame her if she couldn't handle it._

_There was a knock on the door and both looked up, seeing Sara walk in. With a quick flick, he casually slipped the box beneath the blanket._

_"Hey," he greeted her, trying to smile wide, but knowing that it wouldn't fool anyone, least of all Sara._

_Sara smiled back, but it was plain to see that she was worn out and stressed. She was only allowed to leave the safe house every couple of days, and even then, she couldn't stay too long. Both of them were going stir crazy, and he knew that Sara did not do well with nothing to occupy herself. The last time she had 'died,' she'd thrown herself into the investigation. Now, she could only sit and wait._

_"Hi," she said and leaned over stiffly to kiss him. "You're not green today. Progress."_

_He chuckled lightly. "It's not my best color."_

_Reena stood up. "Well, I'll leave you two be. I'll talk to you later, Neal." She squeezed Sara's good shoulder, smiled, and walked out, the door closing behind her._

_Sara sat down in the empty chair and scooted closer, taking his hand._

_"How are you?" he asked, before she could say anything. He didn't want to talk about himself, tired of all the attention that he frankly didn't want anymore._

_Sara needed attention too. She tried to deflect, but she'd been injured too. It wasn't obvious, the bruises on her face were fading, and the only other outward sign that she'd been injured was the cast on her arm. But her whole body was bruised, her ribs sore, and her shoulders were held back in a figure of eight splint that he knew was uncomfortable for her. She didn't complain, even though she was as embarrassed as he was at needing help to get dressed._

_"I'm good," she replied quickly. He knew better than to push. The two of them were experts at denial. "Actually, they gave me a laptop, and I've started some research."_

_He raised an eyebrow at this, but honestly, he was not surprised. That she'd convinced them to give her a computer, or that she found a project to work on._

_"I'm looking at rehab facilities."_

_Neal swallowed hard and gripped her hand. He wanted out of here—there was no question about that. But leaving this hospital, this bed, was not the end. There was going to be no end to this, and he wasn’t ready to accept that._

_She squeezed back in response, and smiled. "I know the doctors are talking about sending you to a local hospital, but there's a bigger one out in Aylesbury—the National Spinal Injuries Centre. It's really good. One of the few in Europe that has CARF international accreditation for spinal cord rehabilitation. It's an hour away, but I talked with Agent Moran, and he actually thought it would be better if we left London. So your doctor is going to contact the hospital. We should hear back soon._

_“Meanwhile, I’ve been reading forums on what to expect, and what we need to bring. One of the agents is going to help us-”_

_"You don't have to do this," he said quietly, stopping her._

_She looked at him surprised and shook her head. “No, we have to think about this. The doctors say you could leave as soon as the day after tomorrow if the hospital is ready to accept you. We have to be ready.”_

_“Sara-”_

_“Jessica,” she interrupted and glared at him. “We have to get used to this. Like it or not, that’s who we are now, and that’s who we’ll be for the next few months.”_

_“ **Sara** ,” he repeated and looked her in the eye. “ **You** don’t have to do this.” He didn’t like it. He didn’t like that Sara had to get used to a new name and research the best rehab hospital for him, or face the ugly truth of what lay in their future. She shouldn’t have to do any of it._

_She froze and her eyes flared. “Neal,” she stopped and took a deep breath. “Alec. Yes, I do. We are going to get through this and we’re going to move back to the US, and whatever our names will be, we’re doing this together. I can go back to the weather being in Fahrenheit, where everything is not a ‘pudding,’ and you drive on the right side of the road.” Her voice pitched and suddenly she slumped back in her seat. “Not to mention, where I can get some decent Mexican food.”_

_Neal’s eyes widened and he gave her a weak smile. “Tell me how you really feel.”_

_Sara relaxed and laughed softly. “Sorry. I just…” she exhaled slowly. “I’m okay, really.” She nodded, giving him a shaky smile that he didn’t quite believe. “It’s not all going to be bad. And I’ve been thinking, I’m going to make use of my law degree.”_

_He recognized the change in topic and knew she was far from okay, clinging to anything she still had control over. “Oh? Think they’ll let you? Law can be pretty high profile.”_

_“I’m not aiming to be the US Attorney General,” she replied dryly, then shrugged lightly. “No, I thought maybe intellectual property… art and culture, that type of thing.”_

_“Still going after art thieves?” he teased, but he was happy to see her finding a way to make a new life for herself. Starting over was hard. His mother hadn’t been able to handle it._

_She smirked. “I do know a thing or two about them. Anyway, I looked into it, and the bar exam is held in February and July. So I’ll study, and take it in the summer, wherever we end up.”_

_Neal grimaced. He knew they probably wouldn’t have a choice, and that they would never be able to go back to New York, but it still hurt. Although he’d left, New York had become home, it was a city that became a part of you. Even Sara would have to agree. He hesitated slightly, then asked, “Where do you want to live?”_

_“Not Florida,” she replied immediately._

_He blinked, surprised by the decisiveness and speed of her answer._

_“Too many bugs,” she explained._

_“Ah, well, not to worry." The corner of his mouth twitched. "George Donnelly allegedly conned a couple from West Palm Beach into investing in a diving expedition with some fake coins from the Spanish 1715 Treasure Fleet.”_

_Sara rolled her eyes, and they both fell silent._

_George, Steve, Nick… they were all gone now. They were only small pieces of him, from a past he’d given up, but losing them still stung. He'd cultivated them, relied on them, and now he had to just toss them away. They were dead now too, he supposed. But only a few people would know. It didn’t hurt as much as everything else he’d lost, but it was just a reminder of how different everything was going to be._

_“We’re going to be okay, Neal,” she said finally, breaking the silence. “We’re still here, and that’s what matters. So what if we have to change it up a bit?”_

_“It’s more than just a bit.”_

_“I don’t care,” she said firmly. “We’ll deal.”_

_Neal watched the familiar signs of Sara shoring up her defenses as she accepted a challenge, when she put her mind to something and wouldn’t let anyone discourage her otherwise. Her shoulders would normally square back, ready to pounce or show that she was in control, but the splint already had them pulled back. The subtle shift to do so anyway, the natural inclination, was obvious to him. Then there was the slight flare in her eyes that, depending on the situation, would either light up in anticipation or harden in determination._

_It was a sight that had once made him step back, but now made him look on in awe. He was proud of her, for making the life she had, and not letting anything stand in her way. It was something he respected. He knew that she would tackle this life like everything else before, with her head held high and with the spirit to match._

_But it wasn’t the life he wanted for her. He hadn't stopped her from going to London because he wanted her to be happy. And right now he could only think that she deserved someone else, to have that life back._

_“Sara, I can’t even take care of myself right now. It’s going to be a lot harder than you realize,” he said, and felt himself start to choke up, and tried to push it down. He didn't want to lose her, but she was too good for him._

_She shook her head as if she knew what he was thinking, and squeezed his hand again. "That’s why you’re going to rehab. You’ll learn. And you’re not doing this by yourself." She paused and smiled softly, gently stroking the palm of his hand._

_"I know you’re used to landing on your feet all the time. Finding a way out of everything, be it jumping from a tram or off the side a building. But what you need to remember is that you had help. You weren’t alone then, and you’re not alone now. I’m here, and we **will** get through this, Neal."_

_Neal nodded, took a deep breath, and felt the mask he'd been wearing start to crack. He was still scared, terrified of learning to live in this broken body. It was never going to be the same again._

_A tear slipped down his cheek and Sara's hand moved to wipe it away. She cupped his cheek and he closed his eyes, leaning into her. His chest shuddered, a silent sob escaping, and he knew that this was it. There was no turning back._


	7. Chapter 7

After dinner, Sara went to give Madeline her bath and get her ready for bed while Neal started to clean up. Without a word, Peter helped clear the dishes off the table. Neal could tell he was still uncomfortable with the situation. Most people either looked away or tried to help him. It was guilt that was eating at Peter, though, along with a sense of wanting to do something, anything, to make up for the years missed.

“How about the five cent tour of the place?” Neal asked, looking up after they had finished.

Peter nodded, and appeared relieved that Neal hadn’t jumped back into their earlier conversation about those first few months. Their eyes met and they both smiled. No matter the reassurances or apologies that Neal could give his friend, he knew it would take Peter a long time to accept and get past the hurt and grief he’d suffered for the past five years. They could talk and laugh and catch up tonight, but it would never be enough. It would never be the same as it was before.

Neal led him around, showing Peter the nursery that looked as though Noah’s ark had let loose. On seeing the spotless floor in Madeline’s purple butterfly themed room, Peter had remarked wryly, ‘Enjoy it while it lasts.’ They could hear Madeline’s giggles in the bathroom as they walked back down the hallway and Neal unlocked a door on the other side of the house.

With a flourish, he waved Peter in before him. “After you.” 

He watched as Peter’s eyes widened in surprise as he looked past Neal. “You have an elevator?”

Neal chuckled lightly and backed into the elevator after Peter. After closing a series of doors, he pushed a button on the wall and the elevator jerked, slowly moving downward. “Yep. It was this or a small lift, and we figured an enclosed elevator was safer if we had kids crawling around.” He paused and glanced up with a small shrug. “Plus, it looks nicer.” Peter smirked. Neal rolled his eyes and turned back around. “Trust me when I say we’re going to be paying off this house long after Madeline is in college.”

The elevator stopped and Neal wheeled out. He hit a light switch on the nearby wall and led Peter down a hallway. They stopped in a large open room that took up most of the basement. On the back wall were a row of windows and a patio door that opened out to the backyard. A little light from the living room above them filtered down through the porch, illuminating the room just enough for them to move around.

Neal found the light switch easily and a string of red pendant lights hanging in the middle of the room lit up. 

“A pool table?” Peter exclaimed in astonishment.

Grinning, Neal rolled forward. The rec room was one of his favorite rooms. When they’d realized that they could only fit three bedrooms on the main floor, they knew they would have to finish out the basement for a fourth bedroom. At first, Neal had insisted that it would be okay that he couldn’t get downstairs, but Sara had fought him on it. It was only later that Neal appreciated Sara’s efforts to make sure Neal didn’t feel like a prisoner in his own home.

“Sara gave it to me for my birthday the first year we lived here.”

Peter turned and shook his head, clearly exasperated once again at Neal’s luck. “Are you kidding me? I get colorful dog socks and you get a pool table?”

Neal laughed and ran a hand over the edge of the pool table. It was stained a dark black finish, with clean lines, easy for him to roll under and work around. Bright red felt covered the surface, matching the red lighting above and the red bar stools at the small bar in the corner of the room.

“What can I say? I’m a lucky guy.”

Peter pointed towards a door on the other side of the room. “Let me guess, there’s a ping pong table in there?”

“Nope. That’s my studio.” Neal pushed away from the table and then wheeled over to the door. Peter followed him into the room without a word. Neal didn’t turn on the lights; moonlight bathed the room in a soft glow. He stopped a few feet in and leaned back in his chair. This was the one room where he felt totally at ease and peaceful. It was just him and his paints. With a walk-out basement, the room was allowed natural lighting, and he could have his own space away from the noise of the rest of the house.

“Unfortunately, it’s been awhile since I’ve had the time to paint.”

Peter glanced down at him with a wry smile. “Miss your carefree bachelor days?”

He blinked. Peter’s offhand question stung. The accident was the dividing point of his life—Neal knew he meant nothing hurtful by it—but he was either a conman with legs or a husband and father in a wheelchair. Most days it was an easy choice. He didn’t even think about it anymore.

“Nope.” Spinning around, he wheeled back into the rec room. “How about a game?”

Peter followed behind him, closing the door. “Sure.”

Neal went to grab a cue and watched as Peter unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. It was a familiar scene, reminiscent of the late nights they had worked to find a needle in the haystack, a clue that could help them with their current case. When the anklet had come off, he had left knowing full well that those days were over. The finality of it hadn’t hit him until the accident. He hadn’t realized that he would never see Peter Burke again, never sit and talk to him over beer and cheap wine, or argue whether to put on a baseball game instead of _Ocean’s 11_ (the original, of course).

He missed his friend. More than he had realized.

Peter looked up and grinned. “So, going to teach your kids to be pool sharks, too?”

He laughed and shook his head. “Not if I can help it.”

Walking around the pool table, Peter grabbed his own cue and chalked it up. “Are you going to tell them about your past?”

Neal hesitated. “Eventually. I don’t want to lie to them, and have them blindsided one day if it comes out. When they’re old enough to understand, we’ll let them know they’re in Witness Protection and try to explain everything.”

“It’s not your fault, Neal,” Peter said calmly, and held out the chalk.

He frowned, and his hands moved on their own accord and chalked the cue. “Maybe not this time, but I’m not exactly innocent either. I grew up believing my father was a hero, and he was anything but. I’m not going to keep my past from them. They deserve to know the truth.”

“You’re not that man anymore. Unlike your father, you changed. And aside from being a pain in my side, you’re not a bad guy. Don’t compare yourself to him, Neal.”

Neal sighed and motioned for Peter to rack the balls. “It’s nice to hear you say that, Peter, but if there’s one thing I do know, it’s that secrets never stay hidden for long. And they always come out when you least want them to.”

Peter paused, holding the pool ball rack in his hands, and stared down at him, wistful. “But sometimes not knowing allows someone to live in peace.”

Neal froze. After all the yelling and the anger, they had quietly moved on with their lives, each in their own respective positions—Peter the agent, and Neal the ex-con—with a healthy dose of suspicion and silent resentment. Gone were the easy, carefree days of joking around the office and harmless sleight of hand tricks just to prove that he could. He'd known that Peter had been unhappy, but he'd thought—hoped Peter had finally accepted it.

“You’re still upset about the deal with Hagen,” he replied quietly and laid his cue across his lap so he could move closer. “Peter, you weren’t guilty. You deserved that promotion.”

Peter looked away. “But I didn’t want it that way.” His hands shuffled the balls around silently.

Neal glanced away, staring out the windows at the darkness, and wondered once more what Peter's life would have been like without him. He looked back up at Peter and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry it happened the way it did, and I wish I could have seen my dad for what he really was sooner, but we can’t change the past. It’s a hard lesson, one I’ve had to learn way too many times. What I do know is this—I don’t regret taking that deal.”

He wheeled next to the edge of the pool table and laid a hand on Peter's arm, forcing him to look down at Neal. “It might have not have been the way you saw your career going, but you can't tell me that you think you should be sitting in a prison cell right now.”

Peter let out a long, shuddering breath. “I know, but the way they wined and dined me—the car, the Yankees tickets, and all the accolades they piled on me… the DC job. I didn't earn that.”

Neal cocked his head and stared up at his friend, remembering his own pain and disappointment from that turn of events, and felt sad that Peter still felt that way. “But you did. All that happened is that the truth came out. James did it. Pratt was dirty. And you helped prove it. The rest...” he shrugged. “Well deserved perks, if you ask me. They shouldn't have doubted you to begin with.”

He paused then cracked a smile. “And don’t even argue about the DC position—you turned it down.”

Peter's nose wrinkled up and he shook his head. “Too much bureaucracy for my tastes.” 

“Exactly.” Neal grinned as Peter. “You’re right where you’re supposed to be, doing the job just as well as Hughes ever did. If it hadn’t been for Pratt, when Hughes retired, you would have been promoted. Ask anyone in that office and they would tell you the same thing.”

Peter chuckled. “I’m not sure Reese ever wanted to retire. If it had been up to him, he would have stayed for another twenty years.” He picked up his cue and motioned to the table.

Neal waved him on and backed up. He watched as Peter lined up his cue and quickly sent the balls flying. The striped green ball dropped into the corner pocket.

“Maybe, but look at you now, I would have thought the same thing, and you're talking about retiring in a few years.”

Standing up straight and walking around as he contemplated his next shot, Peter shot Neal a quick grin. “Oh, I don’t plan on retiring completely. You’re not the only one who’s back in school. I start in the fall—going for my MBA. Thought I’d try consulting afterwards. I think I know my way around financial fraud.”

“Nice.” Neal smiled wide, hardly surprised by the news and waited as Peter sunk another ball. His next shot spun wild, and Neal took a moment to look for his best shot. He then moved around the table and lined himself up. Two balls sank into a corner pocket in quick succession.

“You should start something with Hughes. The two of you would blow everyone else out of the water,” Neal said, wheeling back to the other side of the table.

Peter casually leaned against the table and rolled his cue between his hands. “Nah… Hughes is retired for good. He moved out to Long Island to be closer to his grandkids. We meet once a month for lunch. He’s happy.”

Neal sunk another ball and then decided to go after one of the trickier balls. It would have been easy years ago, but it took a little more effort now. He leaned his cue against the table and set the brakes on his chair. In one quick move, he spread his hands on the rail and pushed up, swinging his body up and over, sitting on the narrow ledge. He shifted, making sure he wouldn't fall and looked over at Peter.

He chuckled when he caught Peter staring back at him, eyes wide. “Now, now, Peter. It's not polite to stare.” He reached for his cue and twisted back around, leaning into the pool table. Years ago it had scared him, having nothing to keep him up, but now all it took was some careful balance—and a lot of core strength. He eyed the ball he was aiming for—it needed to jump over another one that was in his way. Holding his cue at a steep angle, he judged the distance and gave the cue ball a sharp tap, sending it flying. It landed several inches away and collided with the nearby ball, which rolled into the middle pocket.

Peter shook his head and whistled. “Impressive. Although somehow I doubt that was legal.”

Neal raised an eyebrow, and set his cue down. “You’re not going to call foul on the guy in the wheelchair, are you?”

He rolled his eyes. “No.”

Neal leaned over and pulled his chair closer, then less than gracefully fell into it. Gravity was his friend, but it wasn’t pretty. He picked up his legs and arranged them back on the footrest. Pushing back from the table, he grabbed his cue and wheeled around.

“I’m supposed to use a bridge, but I think it takes away from the fun of it.”

“Or maybe you just like showing off,” Peter replied dryly.

Neal looked up and flashed him a big grin. “Maybe.” He shrugged lightly. “It took a long time to learn that shot when I was a kid. Be a shame not to use it anymore.”

“Yes, it would be such a shame to play down to the rest of us mortals.”

Smothering a grin, Neal stared down the table and lined up his next shot. They played on in silence, moving around each other without a word. There was a comfort in the familiarity, but there was still so much waiting to be said. It was Peter who finally spoke up.

“Hughes went to your funeral.”

Neal’s hands froze, and he glanced up curiously at the somber tone of Peter’s voice.

Peter stood at the end of the table, clutching his pool cue tightly. “Everyone from White Collar went. Even Rice and some agents outside the department showed up. It was a sight to see, really. The FBI and the criminals they chased, all in one place. Mozzie and his friends all sat off to the side—didn’t say a word to anyone, and disappeared at the end before anyone could even get a good look at their faces.”

He laughed softly and continued in a low voice, “No one else could get those two groups together without, well, shots being fired I suppose. Only you…”

Neal stayed silent. 

“I don’t want to do that again, Neal,” he said quietly. “I can’t just walk away again.” He took a deep breath and looked over at Neal, hope shining in his eyes. “Why can’t we stay in touch?”

“Peter…” Neal started, and sighed.

“You ran under the nose of the FBI for… how long? What’s so different about this?”

It would have been ironic that Peter was asking this of him, if it weren’t for the fact that the consequences this time around were worse than prison. “You want me to break the rules, Peter?”

Peter shifted and looked away almost guiltily. “No, but this time…” He glanced back. “Does it matter? I know where you live. It’s not like I can forget that. We can use burner phones… anonymous email accounts…”

“Email can be read, Peter. They can be traced. You know that as well as I do.” He looked up at Peter. “It’s not that I don’t want to…”

And Neal did. He’d already given it serious thought, but he wasn’t going to put his family at risk. Not now.

“There has to be a way. Look at Mozzie.” Peter waved a hand around, visibly frustrated. “He’s as paranoid as they come and he stays off the radar.”

Neal almost laughed. Peter was using Mozzie as his argument? But he understood how Peter felt. He’d once argued with Mozzie about staying in New York because he didn’t want to leave his friends behind. They had become family.

Now he had a family.

Could he have them both? Peter did have a point—there were ways to be anonymous, and after a life on the run, he had the experience. Neal could hear Mozzie’s voice in his head, drilling into him how to stay safe and anonymous.

If he did this, would this just be the beginning of the proverbial slippery slope? First Peter, then El, and maybe Mozzie? Or June? They were all trustworthy, but this was why WitSec had rules. No contact. It was a chain reaction, and sooner or later someone would find out—be it friend or foe.

But Peter already knew the truth, and Neal couldn’t do anything about that.

Neal trusted Peter with his life, and by extension, his family. Peter knew the risks better than anyone did. It would be hard to keep the secret, but he knew Peter would protect them.

And when it came right down to it, Neal wanted it as much as Peter did. A couple nights weren’t enough. He wanted his friend back.

Taking a deep breath, he finally nodded. “Okay.”

Peter looked ready to argue, then realized that Neal had agreed. Any other time, Neal would have taken joy in tripping Peter up. “Okay?” he echoed.

It felt like a role reversal, and Neal nodded again. “Yes, but Peter, we do it my way. And you can’t tell Elizabeth. No one can know—not even Jones.”

Surprise, and then obvious disappointment crossed his face. Then moments later Peter shook his head and schooled his face. With a grim smile, he nodded. “I understand. If I were in your shoes, I’d expect the same thing.”

Neal was tempted to joke that he couldn’t feel his shoes, or his feet for that matter, but decided against it. Peter wasn’t ready for those kind of jokes yet. Maybe in time. That thought made him smile. It would be a long distance relationship, but he would have Peter in his life again.

“There is software that lets you use the Internet anonymously. Use the version that you can run off a flash drive so it’s not installed on your computer. We’ll set up an email account that both of us can access. Don’t send any emails—only use drafts. If we attach photos, the other person has to delete them as soon as they view them. And we can never print anything out.”

He relaxed his hands and realized that he’d been holding the pool cue like a vice for the past few minutes. Resting it against the table, he evened out his breath and looked up at Peter. “We get burner phones, but for now they’re for emergencies only. I know that’s not what you want to hear-”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Peter interrupted. He exhaled loudly and ran a hand through his hair. “I’ll take what I can get. Considering that two days ago you were dead, this is… well, I can’t complain.”

Peter stared off into the night, absently spinning the cue between his hands. “I still remember getting that phone call. Jones and Diana had just been joking about you, how you would do anything to get out of the van. When I saw the London area code, I thought maybe you’d gotten into trouble again, but I had no idea… I-” he squeezed his eyes shut. “I hadn’t realized how much I missed you and then you were gone.”

Neal swallowed and looked down at his hands in his lap. Those first few days were a blur to him now. But clearly, others would never forget.

“I’m sorry,” Neal replied quietly.

Peter glanced back and smiled shakily. “It’s not your fault. You did what you had to do to stay safe—to keep all of us safe. That’s a decision I don’t envy you having to make. It… it was just hard.” He took a deep breath. “You never expect the last time you see someone to be… the last time.”

Neal closed his eyes. That was a feeling he was familiar with. For days when he was laid up in the hospital all he could think about were those last moments—walking, running, dancing—and the people he’d left behind. It had seemed wrong that his last words to Peter had been so… trivial. If he had known, if he had called him just once after he left… 

But he hadn't. He'd been so focused on moving on with his new life, on making sure he could stay on the straight and narrow, that he hadn't allowed himself to look back. Not even to pick up the phone. He'd just wanted some time to himself, to get his feet under him, and enjoy his freedom without constantly being second guessed.

Maybe if they had worked things out that last year, instead of quietly ignoring everything, he might not have felt that way. But he’d wanted Peter to be proud of him, and for that, he’d needed to prove himself, and that took time. Time he never got.

He opened his eyes to find Peter staring down at him, his eyes tinged red and his face crestfallen. 

Without a word, Peter crossed the distance between them and leaned over, wrapping his arms around Neal, hugging him tight. “It’s been too long,” he whispered, choking up.

Tears trailed down his cheeks as Neal reached up and hugged him back. “I know.”

*~*~*~*

_Neal stared morosely out the small airplane window as they sat in the hanger. He was so close. Just a few miles away, Peter was going about his day, grumbling about paperwork and looking on enviously as Jones and Diana went out into the field. And here he was, stuck inside a small government jet, unable to go anywhere even if he tried._

_For obvious reasons, they hadn’t deplaned once they’d landed at Teterboro airport. Only seven hours ago they’d left London, but already it felt like a lifetime. As if he’d crossed an invisible line, where Neal Caffrey ceased to exist and John Cameron was born. His old life was officially over._

_He watched as Erin, the US Marshal assigned to them, talked with the customs agent outside. Three more US Marshals could be seen standing around the perimeter of the hangar, although unnoticeable to the untrained eye. The last time he'd returned to the States under guard, he'd been shot and handcuffed. There were no handcuffs this time, but he still couldn't run for it, and there was no ‘get out of jail free’ card waiting for him._

_Sara was nose deep in her law textbook, as she had been for the last four hours of the flight and the past three months while he had been in rehab. Neal didn't blame her. He wasn't a fan of long flights and trapped spaces unless he had something to occupy himself._

_He hadn't had this much time to himself since the weeks he'd spent in the hospital on his back. Ever since the accident, every hour of his life had been scripted—from the nurses rotating him every two hours to the strict schedule of rehab. There had been hours of physical and occupational therapy, gym time, psychologist and doctors appointments, and general instructional classes. Even in his allotted free time, he'd been expected to participate in group activities._

_There had been little time to just breathe._

_Neal didn't like having all the attention focused on him all the time. There were times to flirt and charm, and times to blend in and slink into the shadows. But for the past four months, he couldn't run, couldn't hide, even if he wanted to. Everyone, from the security detail to the US Marshals, was there because of him. In prison, he had been only one of many, and with the anklet, he had the privacy of his home._

_It wasn’t just the attention, though, it was the simple fact that everything they did was for him. Neal was used to fending for himself, to doing whatever needed to be done—by himself. He didn't like relying on other people. He liked to be in control, which was why he preferred to work alone (albeit with Mozzie in the background). Rehab had been a startling wake up call, and a lesson in humility. _

_Neal looked over at the wheelchair— his wheelchair—that was tucked behind the empty seats on the other side of the jet. It was top of the line, sleek and ultra lightweight, but that didn't change the fact that it was the only thing that stood between him and any semblance of independence. It was both a blessing and a curse. And he couldn't do anything about it. He couldn't fix the situation, couldn't switch out a forgery or make the evidence disappear._

_He had no choice in it, and that hurt the most, because it had been his decision—his choice to proceed with the Gregory case. He could have walked away earlier, or declined to help Interpol, but he hadn't. Now he and Sara were paying the price._

_He still felt guilty, watching as Sara worked to make herself a new life. A law degree gave her an opportunity at a new career, but it wasn't a given. She still had to pass the bar. The US Marshals weren't handing everything to them on a silver platter, they still had to work for it._

_She hadn't complained, but that didn't make him feel any better. She had supported him the entire time, even while she worked through her own injuries, and that had left little time for her._

_He wasn't so lucky though, having no degree to fall back on, and no marketable skills beyond artistic talent, and that wouldn't get him very far. And he'd been discouraged from bringing any attention to himself, so selling any art was out of the question._

_Neal was just thankful that he was getting a high school diploma out of it. The Marshals had reluctantly agreed that it would be better for him to have a diploma, rather than a GED. And as it so happened, they had his records from his first stint in WitSec, where he had left just two months shy of graduating with straight A’s and a respectable SAT score._

_Going back to school didn't quite scare him, but he realized that this was the turning point of his life. He had to rebuild—recreate—Neal Caffrey for the final time. If it weren't for the chair, he could easily see this as another alias, a life he’d once offered to Sara (minus the riches, of course). But it wasn't that simple. His life was not the fairytale that everyone thought he lived. Not then and certainly not now._

_He'd already learned how hard his life would be, and it wasn't pretty._

_A part of him didn't want to accept it, but that only led to madness, and Neal was stronger than that. There had been a lot of ups and downs in his checkered past, and now, well... he wasn't sure whether this was an up or a down. He was alive. Sara was alive. There was no anklet on his leg (not that he would feel it if there was), and 'felon' wasn't tacked on to his name._

_But the past four months had been the hardest of his life, and he wondered how he could look forward to a life in a wheelchair. The con man with the silver tongue and million dollar smile was gone. He could no longer slip into a crowded room and work his magic, then waltz out unnoticed. The psychologist at the rehab center had tried to get him to see that his life wasn’t over, but he couldn’t explain to her that it really was—Neal Caffrey was gone. In more ways than one._

_It wasn't that he missed his old life of lying and thieving and constantly looking over his shoulder. But for a man who’d lived his life alone, it was hard to need help to do even the simplest of things. Or deal with all the effort and planning that was part of his life now._

_He knew it would get easier with time. In the past three months he’d gone from completely helpless and unable to sit up on his own, to taking care of himself. Glancing over at Sara, he smiled softly, watching the intense concentration on her face. Her stubbornness, love, and support were really what got him through. She had been there every step of the way, and while parts had been embarrassing and ugly, she’d taken it all in stride._

_Without warning, she slammed her book shut, startling him. She rolled her neck and stretched her arms for a moment, before looking up at him._

_"Had enough?" he asked lightly._

_She let out a huff. "If I never have to hear about the rule against perpetuities ever again, I'll be a happy woman."_

_Neal raised an eyebrow, honestly amused at seeing this side of her, and wondered what she had been like as a child. She'd grown into a tenacious and ambitious woman, but the little girl in her had to have been feisty. It was a frightening yet adorable mental image._

_Sara shrugged, then stood up and walked over to sit across from him. "I'm just tired. It's one thing to spend hours tracking someone down, but at least you get some satisfaction when you catch the guy. I feel like I'm going nowhere, just reading the same thing over and over—for months on end.”_

_He smirked. “Peter chased me for three years. I’m not sure you can compete.”_

_Rolling her eyes, she popped her neck, and he winced as he heard a crack. She stretched her arms above her head and closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. “Yeah, well, I haven't studied this much in years. I’m just glad I don’t have to go back to school too. That’s all you.” She opened her eyes and they twinkled in obvious amusement. “Excited?”_

_“I like school. There’s always something new to learn.”_

_“Of course, how could I forget that Neal Caffrey is an expert in practically everything?” she remarked dryly. Cocking her head to the side, she looked at him pointedly. “How many degrees do you have?”_

_He beamed. “Three MBAs and two doctorates.”_

_She shook her head and laughed. “Only you…” Settling back in her seat, she smiled, and for a moment Neal forgot they were on their way to a new life._

_It was easy to slip back into that familiar place, bantering back and forth, especially now that they were out of the hospital. Soon, it would just be the two of them again. He knew it wouldn’t go back to normal, though. It couldn’t._

_“You ready for this?”_

_Her eyes shined with a love and resolve that still surprised him most days, and the corners of her mouth stretched wide in a warm smile. There was no hesitation in her voice as she replied, “You jump, I jump.”_

_Neal's heart swelled, and he knew in that instant that everything would be okay. He didn't regret his choice to move to London, and he wouldn't dwell on what could have been. Neal Caffrey might have died, but in name only. He'd never backed down from a challenge before, and he wasn't going to give up now. Not when he still had a chance at a good life. It might not be what they had imagined, or be a glamorous life in the clouds, but it would be theirs._

_And they were in it together._


	8. Chapter 8

Peter was mentally and physically exhausted by the time he got home on Saturday night. The flight had been delayed by almost two hours due to mechanical problems, and although he was thankful it hadn’t been outright cancelled, he was still annoyed and frustrated by the long day.

If he was being honest, though, it wasn’t just today that had him tired. The past few days had been hard, an emotional minefield he hadn’t been prepared to face. Peter was glad to be home, but at the same time, he wished he could have stayed longer. Even though he’d gotten used to the absence of Neal in his life long ago, he hadn’t been ready to say goodbye again.

Peter didn’t know if he would ever see Neal again, and really, that was the hardest thing to accept, even though it was a relief to know that Neal was alive. He felt like a hypocrite for telling Neal that he just wanted to know that Neal was alive five years ago. But it never would have been enough. For over ten years, Neal had been a part of his life in one way or another. It had been difficult to move on without any sort of communication when Neal had died. 

Now, despite setting up the email account to correspond, he wondered if a few emails would ever be enough. He knew he was lucky to have anything at all now, but would he be satisfied with the occasional email? Could one day he convince Neal for more? And was it right to even ask for that?

Neal had every right to cut off contact, and as an FBI agent, Peter should respect that. Hell he shouldn’t have pushed for contact to begin with. But five long years without Neal had been… quiet. Difficult. Lonely, even.

It was startling to see Neal in this new light. He wasn't the young cocky con man that Peter had chased, who had taunted him with champagne and birthday cards, or even the impulsive yet confident consultant who had sent his blood pressure soaring. It was going to take time for Peter's world to right itself with this new, more mature Neal.

Perhaps more familiar was the worry that had once again taken hold. It was impossible _not_ to worry about Neal. He might not suspect Neal of stealing a Fabergé egg or switching out a Degas, but now he worried about Neal’s safety, health and well-being. Not that he hadn’t been concerned about that before, but it was different now. 

Peter didn’t doubt that Neal could take care of himself. After all, he had been for five years now—without Peter’s help. It was just hard to realize that Neal didn’t need him anymore. He might have resented cleaning up after Neal’s messes years ago, but Peter had felt a responsibility then, and even more, a desire, to help his friend.

Peter had to go on like nothing had changed, when in fact, _everything_ had changed.

He was grateful that he didn’t have to face Elizabeth right away. As he slid into bed, careful not to wake her, he wondered how he was going to keep this secret. He understood the risks and consequences, but it was going to eat him alive.

Not to mention that El was very perceptive, and Peter just didn’t know if he had it in him to tell her that this time he couldn’t tell her. He sighed, and closed his eyes. It was a problem for another day.

*~*~*~*

Peter was not surprised in the least when he got the text to meet in Central Park with a code phrase, and he certainly did not have to wonder who sent it. Frankly, it was a relief to hear from Mozzie after waiting nearly a week since they contacted Sally. Jones and the crew were working every possible angle to find out when the paintings had actually been switched out in case they never got ahold of Mozzie. They had to make a case and an arrest without tipping their hand as to how they got their intel _or_ that they knew who was behind the forgeries. But Peter knew it was likely that Neal’s name would come out in the end. It was a calculated risk they had to take. For now though, they kept it between them.

“I saw a mockingbird in the park.”

"What color is the mockingbird?” Peter replied, and closed the newspaper he’d been flipping through for the past ten minutes.

“This had better be good, Suit. I don’t have any reason to help you anymore, and I’m not one to contribute to the repression of the freedoms of my fellow con men.”

“Then think of it as going down memory lane.” Peter couldn’t help but feel nostalgic himself, remembering a meeting years ago, with both of them concerned about Neal’s well-being. It was obvious that Mozzie was still hurting over Neal’s death, and would always blame Peter, the FBI, and the life that Neal had chosen afterwards. 

Mozzie scoffed. “Sentimentality is another word for weakness, and weakness is not one of my many indulgences.”

“Is that why you’re selling Neal’s paintings?”

Peter heard him sputter. After years of going after criminals, he was ready for the sudden escape attempt, reaching over and yanking Mozzie’s arm down.

He let out a squawk, but didn’t fight Peter. “A trap! I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you.”

“Wrong. I’m the _only_ one you should trust.” Peter kept his grip on Mozzie’s shoulder and stood up. He walked around the bench and sat down next to the con man. “If you help me, I’ll keep your name out of the report _and_ you out of prison.”

“I’m no turncoat, Suit. It was one thing to co-opt Neal into the system, but I refuse to be complicit in the workings of government tyranny." 

Peter raised an eyebrow. “You’d rather I arrest you for selling forgeries and conspiring to commit grand larceny? I just want names, Mozzie.”

“Absolutely not!” he exclaimed, waving his arms wildly in the air. “I will lose any credibility I have among my peers. Do you have any idea what that will do to my bottom line?”

“Did I mention that a security guard was shot during the theft at the Brooklyn Museum, and I could charge you as an accessory? That’s assault with a deadly weapon, and that won’t land you in one of the friendly minimum security prisons.”

Mozzie’s mouth clamped shut and he glared at Peter. Sighing, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Fine. I’ll give you a name—but _only_ for that one. And you can’t tell him how you got his name.”

Peter took a deep breath and counted to ten. He’d known that it would be tough to get him to help, and that there would have to be compromises. It was only his promise to Neal, and what one might loosely call friendship with Mozzie, that kept him from arresting him on the spot. He could claim that the tip came from a confidential informant. (Even if said informant refused to admit to being one.) Mozzie had helped out more than his fair share over the years, and Peter had to give him credit for that.

“Deal.”

They were both silent for several seconds, before Mozzie said, “His name is Lucas Caldwell.”

“Thank you,” Peter said quietly. He glanced over at the other man, and paused a moment. His forehead wrinkled as a crazy thought occurred to him. “What if you sold him another painting and I caught him in the act? That way it’s not as obvious as picking him off the street?”

Mozzie frowned. “That would work, except I don’t have any more.”

“You don’t?” Peter looked at him surprised. “How is that possible? Neal was painting all the time, I saw them. Unless you’ve sold more that I’m not aware of.”

Mozzie shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I have plenty of paintings—they’re just not any that Caldwell would buy.”

“Why not?”

“Because they require a trip to Europe in order to switch them out, and Caldwell lacks the imagination and the smarts to steal from the likes of the Louvre or the Uffizi.” Mozzie shrugged and stared off into the distance.

Leaning back, Peter sighed and contemplated the latest problem. He was trying to protect both Neal and Mozzie in this, and he was running out of options. The easiest would be to track down Caldwell and pick him up, but without corroborating evidence, and only an anonymous tip, it would be hard to convict him. They had nothing to tie Caldwell or anyone else to the thefts. Catching him in the act would be best for everyone involved.

But if they could get another painting… He hesitated and glanced at Mozzie. “What if we created one?”

Mozzie looked at him as if he were crazy. And maybe he was. Peter was seriously starting to wonder about his sanity. “Are you kidding me? You think you can just find someone that can recreate one of the greats with the skill and eye for detail that Neal had?”

Peter pursed his lips and grimaced slightly. Neal would probably shoot him for this. He certainly did not have the time, and it was extremely risky. “I know someone.”

“You know someone,” Mozzie repeated and stared at him in disbelief. He shook his head and shrugged. “Okay, fine. But if it’s not good enough, then I won’t do it. Caldwell might not know fine art, but he’s no idiot.”

“It’ll pass muster, trust me. Just find a painting worth stealing and I’ll get it.”

“If you say so, but I reserve judgment until I see it.”

Peter smiled and chuckled. Little did he know… He took in a deep breath and looked around the park. It felt good, it felt _right_ , to be working with Mozzie and Neal again. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this. If only Neal were here, or waiting back at the office.

He turned back to face Mozzie. “I want to see them.”

Mozzie jumped in his seat, and looked up startled. “What? That was not part of the deal.”

He nearly threatened him again, but instead bit his tongue and sighed. “You have Neal’s paintings. I just want to see them.”

“Oh.” 

“But I do think it goes without saying that you can’t sell any more of them.” Peter gave him a pointed look. “I _will_ know.”

The con man shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t want to—not at first.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you did.”

Mozzie nodded numbly, and neither one of them said a word after that. They both were still hurting, though for different reasons now.

*~*~*~*

“So Lisa then goes on to say that she studied Italian in college and that Richard was wrong about...” Elizabeth trailed off when she noticed Peter not paying attention. She put down her fork.

“Peter?” He didn't move a muscle. “ _Peter_.”

He jerked and looked over at her. “What?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Where were you?”

His mouth opened and he froze, then he dropped his fork and sighed. “Sorry hon, my mind was just... I met with Mozzie today.”

“Oh!” Elizabeth brightened. “He's back? Where has he been? I should email him, set up a lunch or something.”

Peter’s eyes widened and he sputtered. “You have his email?”

She shrugged, and picked up her fork. “Yeah, he gave it to me before he left. Why, how did you contact him?”

“I had to track down the Vulture and have _her_ find him.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his forehead with a deep sigh.

Elizabeth frowned. “Why didn't you just ask me?”

Peter closed his eyes and chuckled softly, then looked back at her and smiled wearily. “Because it was late at the time and you've never mentioned it before. I thought he'd left for good.”

“Well, I guess it doesn't matter now. So, what's going on? Do you need his help for a case?” She stabbed at a piece of chicken with her fork. 

He hesitated and took a long drink of his wine. “You know the forgeries I told you about?” She nodded. “Well, we figured out that they were Neal's.”

Her hand holding her fork froze in midair and she looked up at him in shock. “What?”

He nodded and exhaled slowly. “Yeah... surprised us too. We realized the only person who had access to his old paintings was Mozzie.”

“You don't really think he was involved, do you?” Elizabeth knew he was a con man, but it was hard to imagine him stealing things outright. There was just something about Mozzie and Neal that made you want to look the other way. Well... usually, at least. She wasn't going to think about the Nazi treasure. That was in the past.

Peter shook his head. “Oh, he's involved, alright. Not in the thefts themselves, but he sold the paintings.”

“Why would he do that?” Her heart broke at the thought of Mozzie selling Neal's things. When Diana had come back with his stuff, most of it went to his old loft at June's and no one had the heart to get rid of anything. “Neal wouldn't want that...”

“I don't know hon, he had his reasons, I guess.” He shrugged and smiled sadly. “I asked to go look at them, though. Want a Monet?”

She laughed and shook her head. “No...” she swallowed a lump in her throat. “That won't replace Neal.”

He nodded, and ran a hand over his face tiredly. “I know.”

*~*~*~*

Peter crouched in front of the paintings, and carefully trailed a finger over the broad brushstrokes. The paintings were exquisite. Any one of them could be considered one of the greatest masterpieces of all time. But the few originals that Neal had painted meant more to Peter. There was, of course, the Chrysler building that had created so much grief between the two of them, but he wasn’t focused on that one.

No, he stared at one in particular, a view obviously from Neal’s balcony at June’s place. It was of the sunrise, a scene so serene, that it almost made him cry. It reminded him of that first morning, finding Neal sipping coffee, so calm and laid back, as if it was the most normal thing in the world for someone just out of prison to find a place with a million dollar view of the city.

Only Neal had that kind of luck.

But it had run out, he thought as his heart wrenched, knowing now what Neal had gone through. What he had lost and given up, including any chance to see the city and his friends again.

“You can have it.”

“Huh?” Peter nearly fell back, and quickly steadied himself.

Mozzie shoved his hands in his pockets. “Take it. He’d want you to have it.” 

Peter glanced back at the painting and smiled. It was a lot easier, knowing that his friend was alive, even if he couldn’t tell anyone. “Thank you.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot,” he said casually, but even as he said it, Peter hoped he wouldn’t have to lie too much.

“Why didn’t you do anything? I mean, he was your partner, your friend, right?” Mozzie gestured vaguely. “He did everything he could for you, but you just tossed him aside. Treated him like a criminal, when all he ever wanted was your trust. He died for you feds, and yet you did nothing.”

Peter’s eyes widened. How did Mozzie know? Oh, what was he thinking— _of course_ Mozzie found out. “What are you talking about?”

Mozzie froze. “Wait. You didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Neal’s death. It wasn’t an accident. You _seriously_ didn’t know that?” Mozzie was looking at him like he was the slowest person on Earth. And maybe he was. Peter had never looked further into the accident, not after the police closed the case. “I know I’m a conspiracy theorist, but even you have to admit that it was a little fishy. Stolen car? No video of the driver?”

Peter hesitated. He had to tread carefully. Mozzie could see through a lie as plain as day. “It was a hit and run, Moz. Someone stole a car and went joyriding.”

“What?! No! If you think I’m stupid enough to believe that, then you need to get your head checked,” Mozzie tossed out angrily and gave him a derisive look. “He was working with you guys again. Only this time Interpol dropped the ball. The guy Neal put away was seriously bad news and extremely well connected. He put out a hit out on Neal.”

“And how did you find this out?” Peter hoped Mozzie hadn’t tipped any of Gregory’s people off with his little investigation.

“I know people, Suit. I have contacts in Europe too. A big name – Isaac Gregory—was arrested a few weeks before Neal was killed. Coincidence? I think not. A fence Neal knew in London told me that Neal was looking for an art buyer. That’s exactly the type Gregory works with. I started digging, and found out that Gregory was taken down with a painting stolen from Scotland Yard, where, guess what? An impeccable forgery was found in its place.” Mozzie started pacing the small storage unit. “That had to be Neal’s work. Knowing him _and_ given his job with Sterling Bosch, he was probably working with Interpol.” He stopped and gave Peter a pointed look. ”Still think it was an accident?”

“What does it matter now? Neal’s dead, and Gregory’s in prison.”

“I wish,” Mozzie spat. “His lawyers got him off a few months later.”

If he wasn’t so distracted, he’d find it ironic that Mozzie was now condemning the fact that a criminal had gone free.

“Ever since I found out, I’ve been working to take him down. He has to pay, Suit. Neal didn’t deserve this.”

_Oh shit_. Peter wiped a sweaty hand on his pants. This wasn’t good. “Are you crazy? He killed your best friend and you think it’s wise to go after him?”

“Oh, so now you believe me!” He threw up his hands. “You don’t get it. Neal finally had everything going for him. It may have looked like I disapproved of his decision to move to London, but I understood. I was happy for him. Not many people can get out of this business and have a happily ever after.”

Peter had to agree. Not many people did—Byron was one of the lucky ones. Neal had had every intention of going straight and living a normal life, starting a family. And then he’d had to pay the price for his loyalty and sense of right and wrong.

Even though Neal eventually got his happy ending and started his family, Peter knew it had been at a high cost. He sighed and closed his eyes briefly. Would he have done something if he’d found out five years ago? 

Mozzie was right. Neal had done a lot for him over the years, and he deserved Peter’s help. Especially now. He was still living under that cloud of fear and worry for himself, for his family and for Peter and everyone he’d left behind.

He locked eyes with Mozzie and spoke with deadly calm. “What have you done so far? How close are you to taking down Gregory?”

Mozzie shifted nervously under the scrutiny. “I’ve been going after his men and his network. Breaking it down. When they’re working other jobs, I’ve tipped off police, had my contacts plant false intel, that sort of thing. He’s lost a lot of his men. And I know what you’re going to say, he’ll just find new ones, and he has—but he can’t trust them. They’re not loyal to him yet. Some of them have botched jobs and suffered the consequences. People are afraid to work with him now.”

“And what about Gregory himself?”

“I haven’t worked that out yet. It has to be fool-proof, planned down to the very last detail so he can’t get off this time.”

Peter looked at him, surprised. “So you want him arrested?”

Mozzie’s face reddened slightly. He took off his glasses,wiping them on his shirt. “Yes, well, while I think it’s appropriate to just put a hit out on him, I know Neal wouldn’t approve of that.”

Peter shook his head and smiled sadly. “No, he wouldn’t.”

He turned around and ran a hand over his face, trying to think how they could do this. He had a contact in Interpol who might be able to help, even though he suspected Mozzie’s contacts probably would be more useful. Riling up a man like Gregory was dangerous. He admired Mozzie for what he’d done so far, but this had to be done cleanly.

A painting caught his eye and he stopped. He spun around and Mozzie looked up startled. “You said all of these are in Europe, right?”

Mozzie nodded slowly. “Yes…”

“And he had Neal paint a forgery for him?” Peter knew this, since Neal had told him the whole story, but he couldn’t let on. Again, Mozzie nodded. “So he would see the value of having a forgery. Could we sell him one? Catch him making the switch?”

The older con man frowned. “We could, but he only takes contract jobs. He’s not a freelancer out to make money willy-nilly. He’s smart, and selects jobs carefully, and only works with those he knows.”

“But you said he’s working with new people, people he can’t trust yet. If we arrange it so that someone comes to him with a job, something so tempting that he can’t turn it down, and then your people put out word of a forger, or that we already have the forgery… I don’t know how exactly, but we can set it up.”

Peter started pacing again as he thought through what they needed to do. Because of Mozzie’s efforts, Gregory was desperate enough to take jobs outside of his comfort zone. Gregory was good, and he would still be careful, but his desperation would make him reckless—it was the only thing in their favor now. That would have to be enough.

“He’s been caught with a stolen painting before, Suit—and he got off. This might not be enough,” Mozzie said, clearly not convinced.

Sighing, he had to admit Mozzie was right. White collar crime was sometimes black and white, but too many times, it was just a trail of numbers that lawyers could argue. Catching someone red-handed was usually enough, but Gregory had proved that sometimes that didn’t matter.

Murder, on the other hand…

Peter snapped his head up, eyes blazing. “We get him to admit he put the hit out on Neal. Put word out that someone is selling his paintings. It’ll come up, I know it. Gregory may be smart, but he’s a criminal just like all the rest, and that means he’s smug. If we can put a wire on the contact, get him talking about Neal, we’ll catch him.”

Mozzie’s eyes lit up and he rubbed his hands together in glee. “Yes! Oh, that’s perfect!” He paused. “But don’t think I didn’t catch that comment about criminals. We don’t all have huge egos. Super-villains only exist in film.”

Peter chuckled. “What? I think you’d make a great mini-me.”

Mozzie’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t push it, Suit. I’m willing to work with you for Neal, and Neal only.”

He held up his hands quickly. He couldn’t afford to alienate Mozzie. They had to work together on this. “Sorry. Do you think you can get your people to put word out about Neal’s paintings?”

Mozzie relaxed and nodded. “Yeah, that won’t be a problem. If he doesn’t bite, then we can set up the job that will make him inquire about the forgeries.”

“Good. I have a contact in Interpol, I’ll loop him in. Your people will be okay working with the police on this, right?”

“They will for Neal,” he replied, with a determined expression.

Peter smiled. He remembered when Neal had done the exact same thing for Mozzie. It was good to see that not everyone had turned against Neal for switching sides.

Maybe after this, everyone could get closure.

*~*~*~*

“This sounds dangerous,” Elizabeth said, wrapping her hands around her mug of tea.

Peter paused, and tried to pick his words carefully. He knew it sounded like revenge, not justice. But he couldn’t explain that it was so much more. That it meant relief and safety for Neal and his family.

And maybe, just maybe, after all this was over, he could tell everyone that Neal was alive.

“When Mozzie’s contact goes in, we’re going to have police ready to arrest Gregory. He’s not going to suspect anything at that point. There won’t be any reason for him to hurt anyone.”

“But he put a hit out on Neal from prison. How is this any different?”

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Because Mozzie has been dismantling his network. His people aren’t loyal to him. And we’ll make sure he can’t contact anyone.”

“You want to be there, don’t you?” she looked at him knowingly.

Peter bit his lip, and sighed. He had to see it with his own eyes this time. There was no other way he’d trust it. “Yeah. I’m pretty sure Mozzie is going to be there, and I probably need to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“Promise me you’ll be careful.”

He smiled and reached over, squeezing her hand. “Always. I have to do this, hon. For Neal.”

“For Neal,” she echoed.

*~*~*~*

_He found it when his pen fell to the floor and he had to bend down to retrieve it. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw the small stuffed dog lodged under the bookshelf. With a heavy heart, he pulled it out and held it carefully in his lap. The spotted dog smiled back up at him, with its big eyes and bigger grin. He stroked its soft, matted fur slowly, pausing at the small red bow tie sewn around the neck._

_Choking back a sob, he closed his eyes at the memories the toy evoked._

_Peter remembered the day Neal had stopped by, sitting down to play with Satchmo, and had pulled it out of his pocket. Satchmo, already taken with Neal, had latched onto the small stuffed dog immediately. Neal had joked that the dog needed a companion, having to spend all day alone._

_There had been no ulterior motive, not for the toy or even the visit. Elizabeth had invited him over for dinner. Neal had just been a friend that night, nothing else._

_Satchmo had dragged it around everywhere, and slept with it like a proud papa. After he’d chewed off an ear, Neal had showed up with a replacement. For the past three years, the stuffed dog had been Satchmo's prized possession, no matter how badly it got worn and chewed up. But since Neal had left, it hadn’t been replaced, and it was in pretty bad shape._

_Peter's breath shuddered as he opened his eyes and absently turned over a floppy ear, so close to falling off again. It didn't matter anymore. Satchmo was gone too._

_At thirteen years, Satchmo had lived a long life, but he'd been slowing down over the past couple of years. Their vet had said the lab was healthy, just getting old. He and El had watched as Satchmo stopped running around in the dog park, and spent his time quietly curled up on the rug. After Neal died, he’d seemed to pick up on their mood and had become even more morose. Then a month ago, Peter had found him silent and still when he'd woken up._

_Running a hand over his eyes, he took a deep breath. It shouldn't have been so hard. They'd known it was coming. But after the year he’d just been though, it was just another hole in his heart._

_There were good days when he was busy in meetings and work, and came home to a quiet evening with Elizabeth. Other days he would catch sight of Neal in the photo on his desk, and he'd come to a halt. Or when he'd look down into the bullpen and expect to see Neal lounging in his chair, playing with his hat or joking with Diana and Jones._

_For the better part of a decade, Neal Caffrey had been a part of Peter's life in some way. Be it as a case file, a CI or a friend. What had started as a faceless suspect and a file on his desk turned into some of the most exciting years of his life and someone he considered family. There had always been an undercurrent of uncertainty, knowing Neal could run at any moment, but Peter hadn't expected it to be so hard to let him go when the time came._

_The last year of Neal's sentence had been... challenging, to say the least. They worked to heal their partnership, and, with time, their friendship. It hadn't been easy, but it had been worth it, because deep down, Peter knew that Neal was his best friend, no matter how much pain and consternation the young man had put him through._

_But at the same time, Peter had known that the time of Team Burke & Caffrey was over, and it would never be the same again._

_Neal had made the point that there could only be so many 'lasts,' and he had to move on. It had hurt, but he was right. Appointing Jones as Neal's handler after the Hagen fiasco had been the first move, in a series of steps to wean himself off. Because life would go on and Neal would leave eventually. He just hadn't been ready for it._

_The first few months, he watched over Jones and Neal, and worked alongside them when possible. Then he slowly let go. Oh, he still tagged along on a stakeout here and there when El was gone, but he kept to his office and his duties as ASAC. They made up for the time they no longer worked together by spending nights talking and laughing._

_It was... nice. Peter was relaxed, El was happy, and Neal quietly bided his time. Things were good. If Peter was waiting anxiously for the other shoe to drop and Neal to mess up, well, he never told anyone._

_With the months counting down to Neal's freedom, he tried (not so subtly) to ask about what Neal had planned. Neal was evasive. Even El couldn't get it out of him, not even with cookies or gelato. Then three months until the big day, Neal came over to watch a baseball game with him. That alone should have tipped him off, since Neal never voluntarily watched sports._

_Casually, Neal told him that he had a job offer and was moving to London._

_Peter was stunned. It wasn't that he hadn't imagined Neal jet-setting around the world, but the reality of it was hard to accept. He was happy for his friend, because Neal deserved the opportunity—not just the job but the chance at a real relationship with Sara. But Peter wouldn't lie. He was upset to lose Neal, even if it had been inevitable._

_The 'lasts' felt more final this time, and everyone made sure to have some 'last' moment with him. Peter stood back and watched as people wished him well, and took him out to lunch or coffee nearly every day during that last week. A part of him was jealous, wanting to keep Neal to himself, but that thought upset him more, remembering Kramer, and he vowed never to go there. Neal would have dinner with him and El one final time the night before he flew out, but even that didn't feel like enough._

_How do you just say goodbye to someone who’d become so entangled in your life?_

_Three months went by without a word from Neal, and Peter hadn't let himself get upset. Neal was venturing out on his own, trying to make a new life on his terms. Peter was proud of him. If Neal felt he had to prove himself, then he would let him be. But that wasn't to say he didn't miss having him by his side._

_When he finally got a call, it was the last thing he’d expected. To this day, Peter still couldn't believe that Neal was dead. If it had happened while Neal worked for the FBI, it would have been understandable, especially with all the risks he took, but an accident had claimed him._

_And now Satchmo was gone less than a year later._

_Peter didn't know how much more he could take. He had a good life, he knew that. He loved his wife, his job and the agents he worked with, but it wasn't the same. Not anymore. It was too quiet now. He missed the unannounced visits, the office hijinks, and the out of the box thinking. Everything was too orderly now, too normal. It felt wrong._

_Elizabeth talked about getting another puppy, but Peter was hesitant. He knew El missed Satchmo's presence, and really, it was normal to want another dog. Something stopped him, though. It shouldn't be so easy to move on, to simply find another puppy to love. That's not how life worked, death was final._

_Peter's hands gripped the toy tightly and a sob broke out._

_You couldn't replace those you had lost._


	9. Chapter 9

  


 

 

_“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the spider to the fly._

Peter read the message a second time, and couldn't help but smile. Despite Mozzie's subterfuge, they were doing this with full Interpol cooperation—nothing illegal or off-book. Still, his real motivation for going after Gregory made it feel like he was running a con of his own.

The thought of Neal’s reaction—pride, and perhaps a bit of gloating—made him chuckle. Everyone had always said that he'd let Neal get away with too much, and here Peter was, taking a page out of the con man's book.

 _And if you like to rest a while, I'll snugly tuck you in!_ Peter typed back and grinned, feeling his blood race through his veins with the thrill of knowing that their plan was working.

Mozzie’s contacts in Europe had spread the word about Neal’s paintings, and although there had been some interest, Gregory hadn’t stepped forward. They couldn’t appear overly anxious or make the man suspicious, so they'd had to wait it out. But they did get word that Gregory was in Amsterdam a few days ago.

And now, it appeared that one of Mozzie’s people had initiated the next step of their plan—reaching out to Gregory and posing as a buyer with the need for a Degas. Mozzie had three at his disposal, which was easier to believe than if they miraculously had the one painting he needed.

With any luck, they would hear from Gregory soon.

Peter glanced at the calendar on his wall. Sara was due in a little over a week. While he couldn’t be there for them, this was the one thing he could do for them—give them peace of mind.

He picked up his phone, dialing his contact in Interpol, Jack Hastings, and leaned back in his chair.

“Jack? It’s Peter. Keep an ear out, they laid the bait.”

*~*~*~*

“Special Agent Burke.”

Peter straightened, dropping his suitcase to the ground with a thud and looked up at the woman before him. She was a tall, imposing figure, wearing a black trench coat tied tightly around her waist, black dress pants, and high heels that made her nearly eye level with him. Long black hair flowed over her shoulders, standing stark against her pale skin, and her face bore a focused, intense expression. Her stance was firm and her hands were stuffed into her coat pockets, a look he'd seen on many agents as they tried to show they were in control of the situation. He could see the power play coming from a mile away, but held his tongue. 

She pulled out a hand, and held up a badge. “I’m Agent Reena Phillips, Interpol. I believe we met five years ago.” Pausing, she looked him straight in the eye. “I know why you’re here.”

He sucked in a breath, and felt his heart drop in his chest. She _knew_.

A tight smile stretched across her face, and she tucked her badge back in her pocket. “I’m here to help.”

*~*~*~*

Peter watched the agents move about the room with an anxious glance. It was hard to sit on the sidelines of an operation. Jack was a man he had come to know very well during the years he’d chased Neal, had coordinated the sting with the local police. Reena Phillips had also taken an active role, and was down on the street with the police. He wished he was down there as well, but he had to sit back and wait.

He ran his hands over his legs nervously. If any of this went wrong…

“Everyone’s in position,” Jack announced.

Gregory had set up the meet at a local family restaurant, just after lunch hour ended, when it would be empty. There was no connection between Gregory and the owners, but it seemed unlikely that he would make the handoff out in the open.

Mozzie’s man, a trusted fence, was wired up with a simple watch transmitter, and the police were hidden up and down the quiet street. There were even men stationed in a boat in the nearby canal.

But Peter wasn’t worried about Gregory getting away. No, he worried that Gregory wouldn’t talk. Buying a forgery, _(for a hundred thousand dollars!)_ , wasn’t a crime.

He wanted to tell Neal that they got him, that there was no way Gregory would get off this time. It might not change anything, but they would all breathe a little easier.

Peter glanced at his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes, and back at the command post they’d set up in the upstairs office of a store just a hundred feet from the restaurant. The police on the street were their eyes and ears right now.

 _“Suspect is on the scene. He’s not alone. Male—Caucasian, late thirties, brown hair.”_ There was a pause. _“He’s armed.”_

He’d been on more than his fair share of stakeouts before and Peter had mastered the art of waiting patiently, but this time, it was nearly impossible. There was too much on the line. He closed his eyes, trying to calm down. This was just another operation, he had to remind himself.

The radio crackled again a few minutes later.

_“Eyes on the spider—walking in now.”_

The techs switched to the wire and the sound of fabric rustling filled the room. They listened as the men extended pleasantries, and Gregory poured wine. Peter had to roll his eyes. Was it because they were European or did all white collar criminals like to pretend they were gentlemen instead of common thieves?

_“So tell me, how is it that you came to have these paintings?”_

_“I hear things. A couple were brokered in the States last year. I learned from a…”_ there was a slight pause. _“...friend, that Caffrey had a storage unit.”_

_“You have more?”_

_“Yes.”_

Peter’s stomach clenched. _Please, please, please. Keep him talking._

_“It is quite a shame though. Like so many great artists, there is a limited quantity of his works.”_

_“Yes… it is unfortunate,”_ Gregory replied smoothly. _“Caffrey went the way of the greats. The worth of his works soared only after his death. In life… not so much. Caffrey… didn’t understand this.”_

Only the fervent desire to see this guy locked up kept Peter from sprinting downstairs and putting his hands around Gregory’s neck. 

_“You worked with him?”_

There was a beat of silence. Peter held his breath.

_“I acquired the use of his services. It did not turn out as I had expected. I made sure he knew of my displeasure.”_

Peter’s eyes widened and looked up at Jack. The other man shook his head. They needed more.

 _“Rumor has it that someone took him out,”_ their guy spoke up. Peter closed his eyes. They couldn’t push too hard. If Gregory realized something was up, it would all have been for naught.

 _“Some artists are valued more after death. Caffrey would have been good to realize that before he got in bed with the wrong people.”_ He paused. The sound of a chair moving echoed in the room. _“Shall we get on with business?”_

Peter gritted his teeth. So close. He took a deep breath, and waited. There was still a chance.

They listened as the men moved to another room, and a door closed. After several seconds, and what seemed like a lifetime, they heard Gregory again.

_“Very nice.”_

_“It still needs aging, but I assume you can handle that?”_

_“Of course.”_ It was silent for several seconds. _“Your money, as discussed.”_

_“Nice doing business with you.”_

A moment later, the feed went quiet. Peter watched as the tech clicked on her keyboard, and waited anxiously. They still had one more trick up their sleeve.

_“Caffrey really did do good work. It’s a shame I had to kill him. We need to find his source. I want those paintings.”_

Peter’s eyes met Jack’s, and they grinned at each other. Gregory was a smart man, he had to give him that much, but they were smarter. They had known it was more than likely that Gregory wouldn’t admit to it openly, so they’d planted a bug in the tube. It paid off. He watched as Jack gave the order quietly over the radio, and was unable to wipe the smile off his face.

_“Suspects leaving the premises. Closing in.”_

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, feeling a sheen of sweat. Almost done. The hard part was over. Peter just wished he could cuff Gregory himself. He hadn’t wanted to catch someone so badly since Keller had kidnapped Elizabeth. Not even taking down James Bennett or Terrence Pratt mattered as much as this. Gregory had destroyed more than just one life with his actions.

_“Isaac Gregory! Police! You are under arrest for the murder of Neal Caffrey and Sara Ellis.”_

Peter couldn’t hear Gregory’s response but he could imagine the look of surprise on the man’s face. He smiled, and silently laughed. It was all over. Justice would be served for Neal and Sara. Standing up, he stretched and Jack gave him a nod. He might not have been able to take part, but Peter could still go watch as Gregory was led away in cuffs.

Before he made it two steps, the sound of gunshots rang out. Peter froze and glanced back at Jack. The other agent looked as shocked as he was. He ran towards the door without waiting for an _‘all clear.’_ He stumbled down the narrow stairs and out on the street. Police were everywhere. 

Running, he dodged officers standing to the side, and pushed through to the front of the restaurant. Reena was barking orders, and when she looked up, she caught sight of Peter. She nodded and gave him a grim smile. With a short jerk of her head, she motioned to her right, and Peter walked slowly to the bodies lying on the ground. He felt his heart beat wildly in his chest, and for a brief second he wondered why he was so nervous.

He stopped at the first body, but didn’t recognize the face. The past few weeks he had pored over Gregory’s case file, learning everything about the man. This was not one of his known associates, although considering that Mozzie had been dismantling the organization, it wasn’t surprising. Walking around the body, where a gun lay by it side, he moved on to the next body. There, he recognized Gregory’s face. He’d been shot twice in the heart. 

Peter stared down at the man who had nearly taken the life of his best friend. Was this justice? Gregory wouldn’t rot in prison, but somehow, he didn’t care. Maybe Moz had been right in thinking life in prison was too good for the man.

He felt strangely hollow, yet at the same time as if a weight had been lifted. It truly was over now. They wouldn’t even have to go to trial. Neal didn’t have to worry anymore.

He let out a long, shaky breath and ran a hand through his hair. Looking up, Peter glanced around the scene. People were coming out of the local shops and homes. His eyes caught onto a small form standing on the opposite side of the street. He gave a short nod, and watched as Mozzie returned it before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

Facing the body once more, Peter gave it one last look. He was almost afraid that if he blinked, Gregory would get up and laugh in his face, but he knew that wasn’t going to happen. The man was dead. He’d told Elizabeth that he had to be here to see with his own two eyes, and now more than ever, was Peter glad that he’d come. There was no doubt that it was over.

Turning around, he walked back to where Reena stood. Jack had joined her and he smiled lightly at Peter. They both knew how personal this had been for him.

“He pulled the gun off his friend,” Reena explained without prompting.

Peter nodded and glanced back at the bodies. There was a second gun a few feet from Gregory.

Reena didn’t look any more disappointed than he did. “I think he realized he wasn’t going to get off this time. He pulled the gun and took a shot. No one was hurt, thankfully, and they returned fire. His friend tried to grab his backup from his ankle holster—not that he had a chance to get any shots off.”

Exchanging fire with suspects was never good, but Peter couldn’t say he minded the outcome.

“I’m going to go pack everything up,” Jack piped in and clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I’ll see you later, Peter. Let’s grab a drink before you leave.”

“Sounds good.” Peter smiled at his friend and watched as he left the scene.

They stood there silently for a moment, before Reena quietly voiced what they’d both been thinking, “I hope this helps.”

Peter looked at her and contemplated how to respond. He’d known this operation had been risky—bringing up Neal’s name after all these years. But as Jones had pointed out, Neal's name was already back in the spotlight, and that was Mozzie's doing. The other night he and Reena had danced around the fact they both knew Neal and Sara were alive. But what would it hurt now? The threat was gone.

“It will.”

They shared a smile.

Neither of them moved, and they watched as a medical examiner arrived to take away the bodies. A couple of minutes later she was called away, and Peter stood there frozen. When the body bag was finally zipped up over Gregory, he let out a long breath. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he glanced around then turned to leave.

He walked through the lingering chaos and down the street. Across the canal and closer to central Amsterdam, he stopped in his tracks when he spotted a small electronics store. He paused, taking in the large display of cell phones in the window. Without a second thought, he walked in and quickly bought a prepaid phone.

When he made it back to his hotel, Peter sank onto the bed wearily. He pulled out the phone and stared at it for several seconds before punching in the number that was burned into his memory—the burner phone Neal had for emergencies.

It rang several times, then reached a generic voicemail. He waited a couple of minutes before trying again. This time it picked up immediately.

“Hello?”

Hearing Neal’s voice still felt surreal after all these years, but it was a welcome sound after today’s events. It was a reminder of what it had all been about.

“Gregory’s dead.”

He heard a sharp intake of breath, and felt all the stress of the last few weeks melt away. This was the moment he’d been waiting for—not the confession or the arrest, but being able to tell Neal that it was all over. 

“How?” Neal finally managed to ask, several seconds later.

“Long story short?” Peter thought for a moment. There would be time to explain everything later, but all Neal needed to know was that they were safe. “Mozzie. I’m in Amsterdam and the police just tried to arrest Gregory for arranging the hit on you. We had him on tape.” Peter paused and took a deep breath. “He decided to commit suicide by cop.”

“What?” He stopped, then asked in disbelief, _“Mozzie?”_

Peter chuckled. “The little guy is definitely someone you want on your side.”

Neal let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a laugh and a cry, and Peter could only imagine the frustration his friend felt, being so far away, and not having any part in it. 

“He's gone,” Neal said so softly that Peter barely heard him.

“He's gone,” Peter repeated firmly. “He can't hurt you anymore.”

Neal was silent, and Peter said nothing. It was going to take some time for it to sink in. There would be time to analyze the what-if's and what-could-be's later, but right now all that mattered was that it was over.

The years of hiding scared, the worry and the doubt—it could all be put to rest. Their future was wide open now. Peter would bet that Neal hadn’t felt true freedom since those few months in London after the anklet had been taken off. Sure, he’d been ‘free’ these past few years, but he’d just traded one prison for another.

“I can’t believe it... I…” Neal trailed off, clearly still stunned by the news.

There was a noise in the background, a rustle as the phone was moved, and Peter heard Sara’s voice. He waited while the news was relayed, and imagined the shock on her face. He wished he could have been there in person, but the need to tell them was more urgent than his desire to see the look on their faces.

He’d had doubt over the past month, had wondered if he should have told Neal their plans, warned them at the very least, but had decided against it. They had enough to worry about. But now that Gregory was dead, the news was even sweeter to deliver. An arrest would have been nice, though it would never have completely eliminated the fear. Now they could all breathe a little easier.

Peter sighed and looked out his window. The world looked the same as it had that morning—but so much had changed. He never would have thought he’d be here five years ago. It was like a dream.

He heard another rustle as the phone was picked back up.

“Peter?” Neal’s voice was quiet and hesitant. It was such a change from the outgoing, self-assured man of years ago. Peter heard a muffled half-sob, and then a whisper, “Thank you.”

Peter smiled. It had been worth it.

*~*~*~*

Neal breathed in the sweet scent of a newborn as he ran a hand over his son’s back. Christopher was asleep on his chest, and he stared down at the small tuft of brown hair and marveled at how he’d gotten here. There was no way he could have ever envisioned this ten years ago. Not when he sat in his cell, and certainly not when he mourned Kate’s death or watched as Sara flew away to London.

Over the years, a part of him had wondered if it wasn't meant to be, that maybe Mozzie had been right. The white picket fence was a dream for men like him.

But he'd been given a second chance. (Or was it a third?) 

It wasn’t like anything he had dreamed of with Kate—no villa on the Côte d'Azur, or riches beyond compare. They didn’t have haute couture or gold plated guitars. He wasn’t living in the clouds, and he was okay with that.

Despite everything he’d lost along the way, he was happy with how it had all turned out. He was holding a miracle in his arms, and that was worth more than any treasure in the world. It wasn’t a perfect life—by any means, but he’d learned long ago that there was no such thing. He couldn’t have it all.

The door to his bedroom opened and a small head of red hair peeked in. Madeline’s eyes lit up when she spotted him and she ran towards the bed.

“Shh…” he held a finger up to his lips before she climbed up next to him.

She nodded and gave him a blindingly bright smile. Curling up by his side, she tucked her head into his side, and he moved his left arm around her, gently running his fingers through her curls. He glanced over at Sara, sound asleep on the other side of the bed, and smiled to himself.

He’d found his happy ending. But maybe it was just the beginning.

 _FIN_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has been along for the ride and left such kind reviews. This is not the last we'll see of them, however. I have so much more plotted out and timestamps already in the works. I don't know when they'll be up, but rest assured, they're much shorter!! And fluffier. :D


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